A Bouquet of Yellow Tulips
by Dimas
Summary: Standing in loneliness and moonlight, Shaggy looks back to past days as he thinks about the present. But some shadows of the past are stronger than the rest. Post-Boo Brothers.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own the Scooby Doo franchise.

—

PART 1

He heavily staggered into his bedroom, accompanied only by the echoes of his steps. Like a stone, he fell onto his bed, not even bothering to undress, merely slipping off his shoes using only his feet.

Man, if only someone knew how he tired was.

Just like that, he lay on his back for some time, the comfort and tenderness of the pillow and sheets beneath good substitutes to everything else at this moment. He rolled to his side, now enjoying the soft sensation of the pillow's fabric against his cheek. He snuggled into it as he released a short yawn.

He closed his eyes, but strangely, dream did not carry him off into its realm even though he had spent the entire day on the road. Instead, glimpses from their—his, Scooby's and Scrappy's— last adventure began to replay before his eyes almost like a videocassette.

Shaggy Rogers had gone through and seen a lot for a person at the dusk of his twenties, but he had to conclude—and that was a scary realization—that as time flew forward so did everything grow weirder, and he feared this tendency would continue. Nothing really stays the same under the sun, nor under the moon for that matter. The ninety-nineties were already not far on the horizon, but even they would eventually give way to the almost mystical Twenty-First century with its own share of kookiness…but he was getting carried away! He thought about these awkward changes on a micro-scale, on a specific and recent example.

Each aspect of this adventure was loony in its own right.

An evil twin impersonating the sheriff? No comments, but that still left some questions to be answered.

Hillbillies? The old-fashioned ones, those walking barefoot, carrying boomsticks and banjos? While he was not a professor of anthropology, he had been certain that was an anachronism. Looks like it had been a mistake on his part. His bad.

However, one of these features would have smashed all other competitors in any contest: ghost-chasing ghosts. That was undoubtedly a first, and compared to it even the fact that the trio acted like some Three Stooges wanna-bees seemed trivial.

Ghost-chasing ghosts or ghostly ghostchasers—whatever you call this innovative form of business, it was…it was…he struggled to find a word…it was just wrong.

He remembered a time when such a service was unheard of.

Why did it have to be ghosts? He hated ghosts!

Now lying on his bed within the walls of his house, he nostalgically remembered a time when all the undead he had come across always turned out being crooks and loonies in masks.

He closed his eyes and finally blanked out.

Then noises started reaching his ears. The first sound felt like a melody, a twisted and dry melody…like that of a rattle. Then, but not interrupting the first tune, came the clanking of something heavy and metallic. Roars of something big and beastly started coming from an unknown direction. And finally a cry joined the already contrasting choir of sounds, a cry harsh and accented:_ Creeper_.

For a moment the hellish quartet materialized before him: a witchdoctor in a long ceremonial red robe, the insidious rattle clutched in hand, with his face hidden beneath a carved Polynesian mask; a figure clad in black knightly armor from head to toes; a half-man half-wolf hybrid; and a hunchback ghoul with seemingly decayed skin.

"Zoinks!" with a startled shout Shaggy bolted up.

Breathing heavily, he looked around the room. Yet only furniture and weak moonlight that was coming from the window turned into the only things his gaze caught.

_I take that back, there's nothing nostalgic in those guys in masks_, he changed his earlier conclusion.

The young man stood up and put his shoes on: a midnight snack was a solution to any problem, be it stress, insomnia, or a bad fright.He hoped that at least something was left in the fridge, for he had not had time to go grocery shopping. If luck was on his side, then Scooby had not raided it yet.

He managed to make only one step before the moonlight played tricks with his tired eyes. Shaggy thought he saw another illusion. Surrounded by the radiance of the night sky's pale lantern, a pair of blue-green eyes looked back at him, binding his gaze to them. He could not resist sinking in the sparkling orbs. Yet, it was not just eyes that he saw. Those red locks, long and healthy, gave him an urge to bring his hand forward and play with them with his fingers. The facial features seemed perfect to him—they had for many years.

But the beautiful image in his mind faded away.

"Daphne," Shaggy whispered in awe, both saddened and delighted.

The young man noticed his eyes watering and in a moment he already underwent the unmistakable feel of tears on his cheeks.

He clenched his hand in a fist, nails sinking into the soft skin of his palm until it started stinging.

He turned to the window only to see the neighborhood resting in the night's dark embrace. That was exactly what he was supposed to be doing at such a late hour, but…

The familiar image kept flashing in his mind, now by his own wish. He saw her in her late teens wearing that familiar short dress, a green scarf neatly wrapped around her neck, and a headband crowning her like no tiara could. The earlier incarnation was then replaced by her in her mid-twenties with a different dress code but still as…he could find an infinity of words to describe her.

_Daphne_.

But no matter how hard it was to get used to it, one fact had to be admitted…all of this was the past. And this fact hurt much more than any whip. He felt strong blows and stabs to his soul and mind being cast from every side whenever he acknowledged it.

_Daphne_, the name kept repeating like an incantation.

He missed a phase in his earlier narration. After the guys-in-masks period came the time when he had to encounter real ghosts, the highest hierarchy for that matter, the most dangerous of them all. Yet that was also a golden time for him at least in one aspect. But the acid of the present day still proved to be stronger.

He had donated his uncle Bouregard's treasure to charity, a worthy cause. He did not need it. But he would have given it away even more gladly if he had had the chance to again be together with his flaming-haired Muse…


	2. Chapter 2

PART 2: The Princess of Cloudy Castles

He came down the stairs; his trek would have definitely become shorter but more painful had he not grabbed hold when he slipped while on the lower section.

"A tip for the future—next time turn the lights on," he quietly but nevertheless angrily criticized himself.

Shaggy entered the living room. It was then he noticed the hairy lump on the rug. A smile crossed the young man's face. It seemed like Scooby Doo did not bother to retire for the night to his own room. And that already was an omen: the dog had probably visited the kitchen. In the dark he noticed another figure beside the Great Dane. Much smaller in size but unquestionably of the same breed, a young dog slept soundly, using Scooby as a pillow. Great, so they both had had supper… but maybe they still left him something.

Shaggy brought his hand down and carefully patted his best pal on the head. Scooby mumbled something in his sleep and nodded his head. The human chuckled lightly at that reaction before patting the tiny pooch, who gave no response. Having them around was not just great—it was beyond it—and he would not have been able to imagine life without them…He immediately regretted that this thought came to his head that moment. It sparked new associations. The young man sat down on the sofa trying to churn them.

Truly, ghosts were not the only beings that could haunt a person. Thoughts and memories did as well.

_That would be groovy_.

This phrase sounded in his ears, a late and distant echo. For a few seconds it made him shake as though he had caught a fewer. It sounded so charming, so sweet-toned. But he could not comprehend how something so nice could be so haunting as if it had made a distant, and the worst part, unnatural, journey from beyond.

He threw a look at the TV set. Shaggy thought that if it suddenly turned on by itself, and a nightmarishly familiar zombie-looking announcer would address him and reply from the other side of the screen…that would be slightly, but only slightly, a more preferable haunting.

_Am I really that desperate that I'm thinking of such things?_ That thought crossed his mind, "Probably so," a possible continuation to a statement formed.

Shaggy stood up and proceeded to walk back to his room; he was not hungry anyway. He did not keep to his earlier instruction and went up the staircase surrounded by the night's dark.

Finally, he reached his room. He stepped to the window but the scene outside had not changed since last time: darkened windows and an empty street, burning streetlamps and the celestial form of the moon.

A tear slid down his cheek as he made a deep but trembling breath. He would probably be suffering from insomnia this night. Still standing, he closed his eyes, trying to keep the tears away. He remained like that for a bit, unpierceble darkness before him. But then it faded away as if Shaggy Rogers walked through a mystic portal.

—

These things kept repeating with a frequency of a performance in a theatre. The similarities did not end there. Like any play, be it Elizabethan or kabuki, the events followed an established formula. It was the case once again.

There were the warnings. There was the setting. There was the monster. There were the suspects and the clues. All of the appearances and characters changed from one installment to another but the act continued. Ultimately, everything ended like a scripted event. The monster would find itself locked in the jaws of a trap, or hanging in a net in mid-air. Then would come the unmasking part.

It was no different in this case.

The police had already arrived to take the criminal for a free ride to the local prison. What they saw was the suspect—what seemed to be a human-sized gargoyle—lying on the green summer grass, pinned to the ground by a net or at least some sort of net-like thingamabob. Giant wings sprouted from the creature's back, yet it had no use to it while the monstrosity was in its snare. The gargoyle turned its head in the direction of the cops, possibly the only movement it was free enough to make.

"Ok, then," said the sheriff, catching the gaze of the beast, "what…is…that?" he made breaks in his statement but his voice remained solid.

"Not what, sheriff, but who," he was corrected by one of the few people present near the vanquished creature, a flaming-haired girl in her early twenties.

She stepped out of the midst of her company, and lightly walked to the beast until she stood just before it.

"That is none other else than…" her statement was addressed not just to the police but all those who witnessed this awkward to the uninformed scene, "George," she said as she pulled off the mask, revealing a man in his early forties.

"George?" sounded a gasp of another man, an older one by the sound of his voice.

The sheriff threw a look at the speaker. The man was truly old: age had repainted his hair snow-white, and his face had been crossed by wrinkles. Yet he still stood soundly on his feet, the frame proud. The extravagant jacket he wore hinted that this man definitely did not have to do hard work to make a living.

"George," he repeated the name, lightly shaking his head as if he was still skeptical, "But why?"

"Just greed," the young woman replied.

It was then she gave an account, which was both an interpretation and summary at the same time. It was a tale of a man who dressed up as a gargoyle to terrorize his rich neighbor's household in order to create a distraction while he looked around for the alleged and possibly mythical precious stones allegedly left hidden by one of the mansion's previous owners somewhere in the building after his death over fifteen years before. It made sense to the sheriff. The old man too found it logical. And the suspect could not deny it.

"Am I right?" she turned to the captured wrongdoer.

The guy behind the gargoyle's mask made a fake chuckle, "What do you expect me to do? Confess on the spot because some little redhead bitch says so?"

"I'm not telling anything," he circled them all with a hostile look.

"Well," said the sheriff, "I suppose this means you're going to take a ride with us to the nearest station. And I hope you'll be in the mood for talking by the time we get there," he thought he could never understand why crooks tended to deny the obvious even after being caught red-handed.

In the end, the creep got what he deserved and ended up traveling in the back of a police car, his wrists handcuffed.

Only five of them were now left standing in the mansion's front yard.

"I don't know how to properly thank you enough for your help," the old man said, his words accompanied by light gesticulations.

"No thanks are necessary," the young woman said.

"Like that's what we do," Shaggy, silent during the unmasking, finally spoke.

His gaze slightly shifted as he saw dawn color the horizon in the distance. He had to admit that this place looked actually nice. By one side the landscape, grass its only vegetation, seemed to stretch on and on, going upward and turning into higher ground miles away. The building they stood before on the other hand was not a contrast to most other mansions they had had the chance or bad fortune to visit. No matter what part of the country they stood in, the structures always had an amount of grimness in common. That, or either he had bad taste in architecture.

Shaggy shivered slightly—the early morning air was quite chilly even during summer.

"Then please accept my big thanks," the old man responded.

The mission was over, and that meant it was time to hit the road once again.

"That was a really neat trap you came up with, Scrappy," the girl said to the pup as they approached the van, referring to the snare used to catch the villain.

"Oh, thank you, Daphne," Scrappy Doo replied in his typically light tone, "but I could have never come up with it without the help of my uncle Scooby!" he gestured with both his front paws in an introductive manner towards the Great Dane that stood on his four on the ground beside him.

"Oh…" the big dog chuckled in his raspy style, though he had no idea what his nephew meant. He put his paw on Scrappy's head and patted him.

They all took their places: Daphne behind the steering wheel, Shaggy next to her, and the dogs in the back of the van. And so they were off from the scene of their recent case. The owner of the mansion watched the vehicle become smaller as the distance between them grew until it completely vanished from his sight. The old man silently thanked them again before turning around and retreating towards the inside of his spacious dwelling.

Shaggy leaned into his seat and turned to the side window. He gazed at the landscape by the other side. Green spaces unused by farmers spread out forward and back, molding into hillocks at the borders of the early morning sunrise. Random trees began appearing in sight before the road led them into a divided grove. Pines and other high trees stood proudly by each side, together their own miniature world. He saw a squirrel rush to the nearest giant, slightly frightened by the noise of a moving vehicle. The young man turned away from the views of the wild.

He heard the voice of Scrappy Doo breaking the silence as he addressed his uncle.

"Hey, Uncle Scooby," the pup sounded as curious and joyful as always, "tell me again how you saved all those prized dogs from that mean Geronimo ghostie. Pretty please."

"Rokay," barked the older dog, "Now, rere to rart…" Scooby Doo hummed, thinking about a proper introduction.

Shaggy raised a brow lightly. That Scrappy with his celebrity-like admiration for his uncle. Like, had he not heard those tales several times after all this time of being with them?

And then Scooby recounted that story in the most unique and at the same time common (to himself) manner as he could. The dog managed to unite most methods of storytelling. It contained everything: partially a narration in his raspy voice; partly sound impressions, although not actually well-done; something like charades was also featured; and of course there were dramatic reenactments of certain parts. Shaggy loved Scooby Doo both as a pet and a best friend, but one thing was beyond denial, Scooby's narration skills were not that good; to be honest, he would not have understood anything from this account had he not been one of the people witnessing it.

However, any genre had a following, and so did Scooby's.

"Gee, Uncle Scooby, that's so neat!" Scrappy Doo definitely had different poetic tastes, "I want to be just as cool as you are when I'm your age!" he kept jumping up and down.

The Great Dane replied with another flattered 'ooh'. As the pup's applauding words kept floating across the back of the van, Shaggy remained silent, calmly watching the view in front of him. The Mystery Machine had driven out of a grove, and he hoped he would soon see the edge of a town materializing in the distance. He wished it would be sooner than later— it was almost breakfast time. They really should have asked the owner to pack some sandwiches as a token of gratitude.

He kept looking at the road, already imagining how a diner would appear on their path and what he would order there.

Shaggy had friends who believed that letting a woman drive a car was just as wrong as playing football on a minefield. He disagreed with such a view. In contrast to this flawed stereotype, Daphne knew how to drive that one did not have to regret not leaving behind a will before the journey. One did not have to shake all the time and keep his eyes shut in order not to see the sight that would precede that of an operation room and doctors in white coats. No, Daphne's driving was calm and steady, perhaps in a way even soothing.

He slightly turned towards the driver's seat. The redhead kept her eyes on the road, her hands resting on the steering wheel. Shaggy was aware of another thing about Daphne—there was nothing easier than throwing a glance at her, but tearing his eyes off the redhead was a problem…

Her charms were irresistible. Every time he looked at her, whenever he heard her voice, he felt his heart make an additional beat.

He loved her. Yet this type of love was different than that a person experiences towards a good friend.

It had been hard to accept this at first; even now as he sat next to her, peaking with a corner of an eye it remained just as hard. However, something hidden in the deeps of his consciousness troubled him. He thought that a weak voice kept whispering to him. Perhaps he was just becoming paranoid in his early twenties? But that was not the worst part. It was the content of this transmitted message that bothered him. It held to its thesis like to a shield. This non-written note contained only several words and the simplest claim: that this was wrong. There were no serious arguments provided but the tiny voice within him stood firm to its position.

Shaggy did not know what to do, and most of all, how had he reached this condition. This was not so just several years ago when there were five of them, constantly hanging out together and solving mysteries as an inseparable team. He and Daphne were close friends, the same applied to him and Velma. There had not been any hints of him experiencing more than friendly feelings to any of the two. He had even made light, harmless jokes about their relationships with other men. So when did it change and how exactly?

The most obvious point to be marked was after the gang split up, all of them ending up on different path. Eventually he got reunited with the redhead as an aide in her reporting career. Yet the point of divergence lay not there. She was still just a friend.

He had searched for it on a number of occasions.

"Hey Daphne, how well are you familiar with the local geography?" he needed to say something, afraid that his companion might have noticed his glance.

"Not actually sure myself," sounded her silvery voice, "Why are you asking?"

"Just want to know where the closest diner is," he laughed.

"Riner?" was Scooby's expected reaction, "Yummy-yum-yum."

"Easy there, Scooby," Daphne giggled, "We should come across one at some point."

Her words later proved true. The place was not big but it served its purpose well.

"That was good, wasn't it Uncle Scooby," said the pooch comfortably leaning into the diner's soft furniture.

The window they sat by—the humans at one side of the table, the dogs by the other—opened a view of the inn's parkway and the road. Car after car would drive past them, each going their own way in the now awoken country in this bright morning.

Their meal was complete, and the team now just sat there, taking a break from the journey; most of them at least. Daphne made a noise hinting on irritation as she crossed out another statement in her notebook.

"Nah, doesn't feel right," she quietly commented.

"What's the matter Daphne," Scrappy asked.

"Oh, just can't come up with the best way to paraphrase a paragraph in the article I'm writing," she replied, playing the pen with her fingers.

They had a long road ahead, literally. They would spend a big portion of the day in travel as it often happened, and after that find lodging in a motel.

Shaggy did not have to knock on the door to her room; it had been agreed he would drop in on her to check out her article and give an opinion on it at seven in the evening. In a way, it was a tradition.

The young man turned the doorknob and entered.

The room differed little from the one he got. Very few pieces of furniture decorated it: a bed, a wardrobe, and a small table with a chair. He found Daphne where he expected least; resting on the bed, the same pen and notebook lying beside her.

He approached her. Indeed, she was asleep. Perhaps whatever she was doing her report on was more difficult than she had expected. He wondered whether he could gently wake her up, but he quickly decided against it—she deserved rest after an entire night of fleeing from or pursuing the gargoyle.

Perhaps it would be better just to check out the article? He carefully sat down beside her and was about to lift the notebook when his gaze ended up bound to her dreaming pretty face. She was just as astonishing in her sleep as awake.

His earlier pondering returned. When exactly did his views on her change. Perhaps during the earlier mysteries they shared as the two remaining humans in the gang when she had a chance to display all of her qualities and skills.

Nevertheless, as he sat there he could hear the earlier thought return. He again felt himself like a condemned criminal. He felt as though he had betrayed the gang and its principles by falling in love with her. He felt sinful. He wondered what she would think if she ever found out? What would Fred and Velma think?

He saw Daphne's lips move in her sleep as she trembled slightly before turning to the other side. She was probably reliving one of the gang's previous adventures in a dream. As a side effect Shaggy received a light kick with her heel. This made him chuckle quietly.

_Ok, I should like be going and let her rest_.

He was about to stand up and make an exit when another thought crossed his mind. He looked at her sleeping form again. He really had an urge to kiss her, so strong her charms were. Yet another part of himself was already labeling him a pervert for thinking thus. No, his wayward desire would not come to pass!

"I love you, Daphne Blake," the sincere but unintended words slipped out as compensation.

Standing up, he carefully walked to the door so as not to break her slumber.

"Did you really mean what you just said?" even the softest voice could strike a person as sharply as lightning in the middle of a storm.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note**: The title of the fic has been changed. After much thinking, I've come to a conclusion that the previous one ('Of Dolphins and Mermaids') was somewhat off.

—

PART 3: Trial by Lavender

He was ready to gulp. Yet fear prevented him even from doing that. What if she would somehow—anyhow—hear it? He would be exposed! As if he was not already…

He wondered how he was still managing to refrain from shaking, a habit that always woke up in panic-striking situations. Instead he found himself brushing the palm of his right hand with his fingers, hoping it would help him calm down.

"Hey, Daph! Like you're awake," he said, trying to keep control of his voice.

Every second began to pass with a much lower speed.

_Busted! _The inner voice he heard before once again made its presence known. And the worst part was that he could not contradict it.

"_What pulled me by the tongue_?" Shaggy thought.

He turned around to face her. Daphne was now seated, her attention dedicated to her companion. Yet unfortunately to himself, the young man could not read her thoughts by her facial expression.

He had to accept the fact—panic always got him running around its stadium, and under the influence of that internal voice and its whispers, its hounds of pursuit were already unleashed. The race was on. He was in no condition to admit his words.

It seemed pathetic to him. He dated girls before. Yet now he was even unable to confess his love. He could blame that voice, that incarnation of doubt, as much as he wanted, but ways out of this sticky situation lay elsewhere.

He really wanted to get out of this room, but running away was definitely not an option.

He wondered if he could say something like 'hi, I just came in, sorry I'm late, what did you just ask me'; to try and mess with her head, to make himself look clueless, thus making her believe that what she heard was merely a dream…But Daphne was not gullible, so the most likely result of this scenario would be the notebook which at the moment lay next to her flying at him.

"Sorry didn't get you there. What did you just say, Daph?" he asked. The question was artificial but at least it would obtain him some extra time.

There was the second option: the shortened version of the previous one. He could just say he was silent all that time. He wondered how she had managed to hear his words. The most probable answer immediately came to his mind; she likely woke up when she stroke him with her heel. If that was truly the case, then this plan also backfired.

"I asked whether you meant what you had said," she replied. He found no note in her voice that gave her thoughts away or whether she was on to him.

He had only one option left…

"Yes, of course I love you…" he was actually quite surprised how calmly he managed to say that part.

_Guilty!_ The inner voice proclaimed again, this time backed by its own numerous echoes that gave an impression of a decision made by a jury in conclusion of a trial.

"…you are my friend. Just as Velma, Fred, and Scooby are," he continued, "Naturally I love all of you."

He waited for a moment. The choir he expected did not sound. So he 'explained' the context of that statement; how he did not wish to wake her up and how he thought the redhead was revisiting one of the earlier cases in her dream. The narrative was of course accompanied by a broad friendly smile for a more natural look.

"Ok, that makes sense," Daphne sounded convinced.

"Sure does," came Shaggy's specific slightly trembling laugh, "What did you think?" he cursed himself that very second for saying the last part.

"Never mind," the young woman replied, a bit uncomfortably, "Anyway, the feeling is mutual. I'm sure the rest of the gang feels the same."

The last few statements were like a stab with a dagger straight in the heart. But he did not blame her; she might have been the fabulously incrusted hilt of the weapon, but ultimately it was his hand that guided the blade to its target.

"So I never had a chance to check that article of yours. Is it complete?" he turned his attention to the notebook.

"Unfortunately not. I only planned to rest for a couple of minutes, but seems like I zapped out before finishing it," she gave a pleasant smile as she picked it up, "sorry Shaggy, you'll have to see it some other day."

He found a way out of the mess he himself had gotten into, yet his exit did not resemble following a weak beam of light in an underground catacomb. He returned to his number, a room almost no different from the one he had just been to. He slumped onto a stool and stretched his legs.

His mind kept returning to the recent conversation.

_Weakling. Liar. Coward. Klutz. _The internal, or maybe even infernal, voice again took up its accuser's position.

These messages coming from the back of his mind were crushing him, as if a ghostly hand materialized out of thin air, and grabbing him by the throat, began to press in a ghoulish grip.

In melancholy, the young man put a hand to his forehead. His next gesture was nodding his head in sign of negativity. His situation was truly pathetic—he silently admitted it. No matter whatever he did, a part of him always challenged the correctness of his decision. He would feel himself wrong for carrying the ultimate feeling of affection, love, for his teammate. At the same time, trying to deny it in words, not thoughts, presented him a sinner in front of himself. It was now obvious; that inner voice did not back panic as he earlier believe—it was a manifestation of his fear and doubt.

_You lied to her_. The voice, his thought, whispered again. The manner of condemnation it chose was not that of a member of a jury; it was an Inquisition.

And the young man could not deny the latest accusation.

"_I have lied_," he thought, "_I have lied…to her_."

The notion was an additional cut.

During their mysteries he, usually along with Scooby Doo, had tried to back out of the unwanted adventures numerous times. That included making up bogus excuses and faking illnesses. But it was not the same as the present case. His ideas never actually worked; the gang was always on to him, and in some way he was aware that his plans would result in failure. The stunts he tried to pull were a contrast to the latest addition. They could bring a smile to his and his friends' faces. Those were mere jokes, but this time it was a lie. And he got away with it.

It was the closest thing to betrayal he could think of. It felt like betrayal. By lying to her he virtually betrayed the gang, the time they shared, even himself…

He betrayed Daphne.

The last part made thunder rumble in his ears. The conflicting thought about love and lie were a paradox. It did somewhat seem that a circle was made complete when one thing led to another which itself eventually returned to the starting point. He loved her but felt like he betrayed the gang; he lied to her and the feel was still the same. Why? Because in both cases a fact remained a fact—Daphne was his teammate, and though the gang never had any set rules in case of such scenarios, it still felt somewhat extraordinary. At least to him.

He turned towards the window; the shades of crimson outside coloring the rural scenery indicated that dusk would soon follow. Then night would come, and eventually the morning, a sign to resume the journey back.

Even though the sentiments he was full of that evening contained not even the tiniest speck of pleasance, he slept calmly right up to the morning.

He did not guess initially what it was, and in ignorant reaction cuddled into the pillow. Yet the continuation of those sounds made him dedicate his attention to their source. Somebody was knocking on the door.

Lazily he got out of bed, dissatisfied to leave the warm comfort of the sheets.

"Like who is it?" he asked when he was beside the door.

"It's me," he heard the gentle voice that he believed he could recognize awake, in a dream, and maybe in a coma, "It's time we get going."

"Sure, like give me a couple of minutes."

"Ok, I'll wait."

He got dressed and stepped out of the room. The familiar purple-green clad figure of the redhead was the first shape his eyes beheld in the hall. She looked as fresh and gorgeous as ever.

"Took you long enough," she said in her cheerful manner, smiling.

"Well, what can I say, I'm a tight sleeper," he chuckled in reply.

It took just moments until they reached the front desk. All that time and while Daphne was checking out for them he was by her side. He did not glance at her, only basked in the warmth she radiated. With the check-out complete, the duo exited the motel. The Mystery Machine, which served as Scooby's and Scrappy's refuge for the night since the motel had a strict no-pets policy, was parked nearby.

"Hopefully, today we won't come across any mysteries that would throw us off schedule," Daphne said.

Shaggy's lip twitched. The word 'mystery' immediately led to associations and just as quickly he began swimming the familiar waters of guilt; he felt his limbs failing, dooming him to the sea-cold deeps…

The redhead opened her purse to search for the car keys.

"Daphne, I'm sorry," his thoughts slipped out again.

"For what?" the young woman asked, not looking at him, busy with her purse. She finally pulled them out.

"For lying to you," he specified. It was strange, but upon saying this he felt as if a heavy rock was taken off his shoulders.

"What do you mean?" he noticed her raise an eyebrow, her attention now with him.

"What I said yesterday," he directed his gaze away from her pretty features and glittering orbs. Saying it was hard, but living with it was much harsher.

With a corner of his eye he noticed Daphne move her shoulders uncomfortably; she probably got the point.

"You possibly understood it from the beginning," he said, reflecting on her statement.

He made a swift pause thinking over the correct formula for the next several statements. He still tried to avoid her eyes, probably not wishing to guess her reaction at this stage.

"Well…yes...I do love you as a friend," he found the introduction the hardest part to devise, "but it's more than that…" he had to make an equally short break; the almost poetic confession was quite complex.

"I love the woman you are, Daphne," he finally managed to finish the sentence; at the moment it seemed like a novel that took many years to complete.

Shaggy never considered himself the mushy type, and though his eyes did not water, he nevertheless sensed something bitter grip his insides.

His eyes met hers. But now it was her turn—she lowered her head slightly to avoid his gaze.

"Apology accepted," her tone was not as cheerful as before, but at the same time did not appear spoiled with negative emotions, "so you finally decided to say it openly?"

He did not reply, wondering whether there was any use in commenting.

"I won't say that I'm surprised by your confession," she looked at him, but no matter how hard Shaggy tried her expression did not give her away, "I understood it back last evening that you weren't telling me the whole story."

"You did?" he only asked because he thought he was expected to by some protocol.

"Yes, I did," Shaggy's eyes went wider as he saw her produce a smile, "it was not just the way you said it, it's the way you phrased your statement—if you had spoken of friendship it would have been different…."

"I am a reporter, after all," the way she knew how to conclude her statement was unquestionably superior to his attempts.

"You sure are…"

They stood in silence for the next several moments, schedules and everything else downgraded in importance.

"Now what?" he asked in an attempt to get out of this awkward trance.

"Time to get going," she said so flippantly and just as easily turned to the parked vehicle.

He could have thought she had forgotten that the whole conversation took place. Though much was on his mind, he was about to follow her and her instruction.

But before she made the first step in the day's journey, he saw her turn her head to him.

"We will speak about this…little issue…some other time," and with that she proceeded to close the distance between them and the van.

He followed.

The drive continued, and it was as usual as always. The two dogs in the back chattered about their stuff, Daphne was behind the steering wheel while he was by her side like a faithful servant. A hitchhiker—if one had traveled with them—would not have found any irregularities. Shaggy could not know about his flaming-haired companion, but his spirit was not on ease.

"_This little issue_," he both grinned and frowned as he replayed those words in his mind.

He had spilled his soul out in front of her, and that was her reply? Was his love such a trivial item in her view? Such a thought really hurt.

They returned to their hometown closer to the evening. They did not see each other the next day. On the day after Daphne submitted her work to the editor's office, and only in the evening did they finally meet up again at a café. They chatted about petty things. Shaggy hoped she would bring up that 'little issue', but that was not destined to happen.

"Perhaps we could go for a short walk," he suggested when they exited the café, implying the park across the road.

"Sure, why not," Daphne responded, even though evenings were not the best time for that.

Several minutes later they were at the destination, having left the Mystery Machine where it stood parked.

The atmosphere of the park was tranquil; one could think he was outside the town boundaries. The light wind playfully shook the leafy heads of the trees above their heads. A lone bird, the young man could not tell the breed, performed its song, the stage hidden by shadows and the green of a tree. The area was almost devoid of humans; they came across only one couple going in the direction opposite to theirs. Shaggy shot them a quick look; they seemed just a couple of years younger, but a blazing contrast—the guy's hand was over his girlfriend's shoulders as he listened to her blabbing, not tearing his eyes off her. If that guy was lucky, he would not trip and go down as consequence of such reckless navigation.

As each minute passed, it became more obvious that Daphne, due to her silence, did not wish to start the conversation he expected. He wondered why. Maybe she did not want to hurt his feeling with the words she would say?

A silent pond now opened to their view, illuminated by the heavens.

"So, are we going to pretend that nothing I said two days ago happened?" he started in his unsure tone.

She stopped in her track, a decision he adopted, and looked at him. Her eyes almost shined in the shadows of the evening. The shades made her even more fabulous by playing with her colors.

"No, that won't help at all," she replied calmly, "what you said is a major thing that virtually divides our many-year interaction into before and after."

Shaggy wished she had avoided such complex metaphors. But at least she did not say 'little issues'…

"To think, during the cases we've gone through, I was not aware that you were drying from love while standing by my side. And I might not have found out…"

"I again apologize for trying to lie to you…" he interrupted.

"And I already said apology accepted," she confirmed.

"And sorry for the truth," he had to say this part, it seemed so right.

"Now you're acting awkward," Daphne raised an eyebrow, surprised, "why so?"

"Because I know I'm unworthy of you," he said, insecurely, delivering a message from his internal voice.

The last confession startled her; the look of surprise gave her away.

"Shaggy," she sighed in understanding criticism.

The redhead reached out to him, literally, as she placed her palm on his cheek. Her hand had a soothing feel on his skin.

"Promise me that no matter what the case is, you won't consider yourself unworthy before anybody…" she asked as he began getting lost in the deepness of her eyes.

"If you wish so," he took her hand into his, separating it from his cheek, and pressed it to his lips.

"Shaggy," his eyes were off her, but Daphne's voice implied she was touched.

"Do you really love me so much?" he looked back at her when he heard the last question.

He noticed the moisture that had appeared at the corners of her eyes. She looked so precious, so fragile that she exposed him to her tenderness. He wanted to wrap his hands around her, to press that brittle form to him and protect her from the elements that could shatter her like a porcelain figurine.

"I truly do," he answered.

Daphne made just one step, but it was enough to delete more that the physical distance between them. Her eyes now half-closed, the redhead said nothing. This left him motionless for a second, but then, as though obeying a magical call, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers.

Throughout the years, in mind or dreams, he would relive that kiss, experience that feel yet again. But only with time would he notice one aspect; Daphne accepted that kiss, she replied to it, but somehow it felt less passionate than he wanted.


	4. Chapter 4

PART 4: A Melody of Vanished Days

He felt a tickling in his nostrils. A taste stood in his mouth, a taste he could not compare to any familiar flavor. He felt something with his tongue, he chewed on it.

He opened his eyes, yet all that he saw was in one color— of red-orange. It took him several seconds to adjust to his state and understand the changes of the usual spectrum. He had not developed any eye-related problems—what before him was hair, luxurious hair of the color of fire. His face was buried in it, some of the flaming locks getting in his nose and mouth, tickling him, making him familiar to their taste and savor.

He distanced from the blazing-themed tresses, and slightly lifted his upper body on his elbow. The surroundings immediately came to view—he woke up in their midst virtually every morning he was not on a journey. He was in his room, hidden behind the walls of his house.

His gaze dropped on the motionless figure next to him. The sight kneaded his heart. She was asleep. Though her face was turned to the wall, he could see from a vertical angle her relaxed features, almost hear her sound breathing. The red hue of her fabulous tresses dominated over the pure-white tones of the pillows and sheets, like stripes of red paint on an otherwise white canvass. He marveled at her exposed shoulder, so fine as if crafted from ivory. He could call her lovely, but that would still be an underestimation of her beauty.

Shaggy carefully lifted a strand of her hair. He massaged it, he circled the lock around his fingers like twine. Doing it seemed little sense, if at all. But nevertheless, it felt so nice to him, like any other sign that displayed his adoration.

He let go of the strand, allowing it to graciously return to the soft surface of the pillow. Once again his full concentration was on her. He wanted to run a hand down that smooth cheek, to press his lips to it, but it was not worth breaking her slumber.

_But can it last?_ He heard a whisper from the back of his mind, no doubt another message from that inner voice. Experience had shown that such whisperings were not a positive sign.

He still could not understand it. The two had much in common. They had always gotten along perfectly together. He found himself lost in her eyes many times, and her presence lifted his spirits.

So why was something have to be wrong? Was it because she was one of the gang? Was it because she seemed so perfect due to the union of her appearance, character, and qualities? He wanted to shake his head, but there was no point in it. This could not have even been doubt— it was some sort of light but baseless paranoia. He wanted to push it out of his mind, to cast it back into the abyss in the farthest back of his consciousness…

It worked. He felt relieved, at least for now.

He watched as she turned to her other side. Daphne slowly opened her eyes, and the pair of bright orbs immediately caught him. The redhead's lips curled into a smile.

"So how long ago did you develop the habit of watching me when I'm asleep," Daphne said still somewhat sleepily, but with a teasing tone.

He smiled back at the reference to the awkward event from a couple of days before.

"Actually, this is only the second time I can remember," he did not have to lie on this occasion.

He bowed his head down and gave her a light peck on the lips.

"By the way, what's the time?" she asked as Shaggy rubbed the tip of his nose against hers.

The young man turned away, though fully uneager, from her to look at the clock on the stand next to the bed.

"Just a couple of minutes past eight," he gave her the time, "Why? Were we supposed to travel to some place again?" Shaggy doubted that being with her had made him forget anything important.

"No," she replied, "it's just that I don't like getting up early when it's unnecessary."

"Wake me up at about ten or so," she snuggled into the covers and closed her eyes.

He felt himself chuckling from the inside as he cuddled next to her. That was something he could have said himself. Though the contrasts were striking, in some aspects they were so much alike.

In a twist of roles it was he who in the end had to be woken up, having blanked out earlier. He thought he rode in boat in thick darkness when he got caught in a storm, so strong the rocking seemed.

"Hey, Shaggy, are you finally going to wake up or what?" a female voice echoed from all sides.

He woke only to experience some more rocking, this time in the real world.

"Like I'm awake!" he proclaimed in a higher tone.

It stopped, but he could feel the source of the disturbance on his shoulder.

He turned his head and saw Daphne, now dressed, standing by the bedside.

"Sorry about that, but you were not responding when I tried lighter," she said and removed her soft hand from his shoulder.

"Ok, so I'm up now," he confirmed as he sat up.

"Anyway, I think it's time I get going," Daphne said and looked into the direction of the door.

"Aren't you gonna stay for breakfast?" her words brought a disturbing thought to his mind but he managed not to give it away through mimic.

"Well, I'm sure I can."

Some time later they were down in the kitchen. This area of the house could not be called enormous, no matter what expectation might have arisen if anybody that knew him well was asked to imagine it. However there was enough space for all the items that made a kitchen what it truly was.

He had just ceased chopping salami for his multi-layer sandwich, a term that in his culinary vocabulary only stood for meaty products, not auxiliaries like cheese and salad. The less enduring Daphne preferred to have oatmeal. He was sitting next to her at the table, by her right side in homage to their usual spots in the Mystery Machine.

Predictably and, after all naturally, he was the first to be done with his breakfast.

"How do you manage not to choke?" asked a chuckling Daphne, "Those are big chunks of food you've been swallowing?"

"Well, what can I say? I'm careful," he said and wondered whether he was ready for dessert.

"Oh, by the way, I forgot to tell you yesterday. A letter from Velma came to me when we were away," she lifted her eyes off the plate and looked at him.

"You did? So what did she write?" the young man was infinitely interested in the developments in the lives of his friends.

"Her internship is about to end soon, and she's hoping to become a full-time NASA employee."

"I bet that's going to be like a dream come to true for her."

"More or less. Isn't it great she's doing so well?"

"You're asking?"

"No," she nodded, "it's obvious."

Daphne was not a philosopher, but she had an ability to make him think about major questions even when she sometimes talked about trivial and idle things. Those thoughts could often be distantly relevant to the topic of discussion or virtually always irrelevant to the secrets of the universe but they were major, and so that counted…

"And what about…us," he made a short pause before the final word, highlighting it. Yet he did not intend making his breathing heavier the way he still did.

She let go off the spoon the metallic appliance made a lone clanking sound as it met the bowl's side, a weak imitation of a beat of a gong.

She understood he was not talking about their reporting work.

The young man needed an answer, a solid conclusion from which any non-deciphered meanings would not spread into different direction. A primary fact had to be accepted—he was confused. Confused by what appeared to be several different voices in which his consciousness spoke or possibly played with him. Confused by Daphne's words, spoken and those she preferred to keep to herself, her failure to give a straight answer and openly reveal her view on 'this little issue', as she had so flippantly labeled it. Having been overwhelmed by her charms and driven by his emotion, he had preferred to become lost in her tenderness rather than address this subject the previous evening.

He could still feel the sweet taste of her lips, but he was unable, and it was a somewhat frightening awareness, to tell what was in her head in those moments. With this question unanswered, everything automatically disappeared in the fogs. In a testing example, he could already find two different interpretations of the previous night. Were they making love or was she comforting him, trying to protect him from the demons that haunted him? He silently ordered himself to stop delving into such thoughts, for they only directed him to the bottomless pit of confusion.

Daphne kept her eyes on the bowl, undoubtedly in an attempt to avoid his gaze.

"I still have some questions," the statement through its unnatural lifelessness like it was addressed to somebody other than her brown-haired companion.

She had to have feelings for him, a sense hinted to Shaggy, but ultimately everything depended how strong they were and how severely they might have been tested…

"So ask, maybe I can answer them?" he urged softly, subliminally wishing to make Daphne sure that he was there for her.

"I don't think even you are able to answer them," the redhead looked at him, but to the young man's dismay, her eyes once again concealed her sentiments.

Shaggy thought he heard a pebble fall down a deep well, accompanied by a sharp air-cutting noise, another symbol with different meanings. He wanted to say something else but his intent would not pass…

Daphne brought her hand, the palm turned upwards, towards him. This courteous gesture felt like an invitation to a dance. Without a second thought, he covered her hand with his.

"Let time tell," she concluded, a smile embellishing her features even more.

No matter what type it was, they would dance together…

Breakfast time was soon finished, and Shaggy was the one to wash the dishes. The warm water poured gently on his hands as he was occupied by this task in an allegory to his state. It felt that as if most, if not all his ripping concerns were carried away down the drain by the warm stream. He kept throwing glances at her, his eyes sparkling with happiness.

"That's a nice rear garden," he heard as he wiped his hands with a towel. Daphne was standing behind him and looking into the window.

He looked into the same direction and saw what he expected to appear, a properly-mowed green yard, but devoid of any other colors.

"But its look would benefit from some flowers," the redhead, an expert on mixtures and contrasts of colors, gave a verdict.

"I'll trust your judgment on this topic, even though any flower pales before your radiance," he said and lovingly wrapped his hands around her.

"Quite a sophisticated compliment," Daphne whispered without commenting on the flaws in the statement's structure.

Their lips met again as if it was a part of a script. The aura of the kiss was so binding that the young man thought it could have lasted forever…could have…

"Shaggy, Daphne…what are you doing?" a voice sounded, its expression fueled by surprise in every sound.

It startled both of them, breaking the kiss. He thought Daphne, traditionally prone to the unexpected, would have nearly jumped back had his embrace not kept her.

Eyes wide, the pair turned to the direction of the voice…a familiar voice. They recognized the miniature figure of Scrappy Doo in the doorway. The young dog was probably as wide-eyed as they were that moment.

"Morning, Scrappy," he threw an irrelevant phrase by habit.

Shaggy was aware they would need to reveal the new developments before their canine teammates, yet he had not expected this moment would come so soon.

"Well, how should I put it…" Daphne was the one to start.

Scrappy Doo was the first one to find out the news. By the time Scooby came along, and it happened shortly afterwards, it became obvious how much the new information got him excited—he was the one retell it to his uncle, sparing the couple from a repetitive account. The two Great Danes did not have a problem with that. Scooby then asked breakfast.

No matter what any philosopher could say, ultimately there were only two prisms through which you could see a specific event: that of the present moment and a future perspective. That moment when the young Great Dane stumbled upon them in the kitchen and the expression on his face when he saw him, with Daphne in his embrace locked in a kiss, would bring a smile and a short but sincere laugh with the passing of time. Yet it did not appear that way in its original instance, when due to such a surprise he almost felt busted. That would also become a part to chuckle about later.

After the dogs had eaten and Daphne had gone home, Shaggy accommodated himself before the TV set, the pets next to him.

"Gee, Shaggy, you two make a good match," the pup, more emotional than his relative, gave a view on the topic.

"Thanks Scrappy," he said.

"You couldn't have found a better choice than Daphne as your mate…"

Shaggy raised a brow at the awkwardness. By his use of dog terms, it was evident that Scrappy never managed to grasp certain aspects of anthropology.

"Ruman relationships rork rifferently, Rappy," Scooby softly explained.

"Like what your uncle said," Shaggy patted the pouch in reassurance that no feelings were hurt.

Life continued, both unchanged and unlike in its composition. They would once more hit the road to do reporting, including the work on Daphne's article series on the criminality in America of those days. Also, as naturally as the emergence of the sun or moon on the horizon, they would once in awhile come across the deeply familiar phenomena of awkward mysteries and crooks in masks. Yet there was a difference too. They were together, and this fact, as warm as the beating of the heart, was capable of redeeming even the worst and most chill-inflicting case. He could still feel the sensation of the encouraging kisses the redhead bestowed upon during these adventures.

Their romance progressed at the rapidest rate. After a period of around six months since the day they became a couple, Daphne moved in with him. They were not married; still young, they thought they had the time to seal their union. In some way, though he had never come across such accusations, he also wanted to prove that he did not try to cozy up to the Blake family—his own family, while well off, was not actually rich, and even stood not in the shade of the Blakes. He was living with Daphne, her surname and lineage unimportant in his mind. However, time would later show that potential marriage was not on the dice Fate had thrown.

But even as he stood in front of a window years after those events, it was not the darkened street open to his view, but diverse scenes from the past whether fun, heart-warming, or tolerably annoying. They had come from what seemed a lifetime ago, but were so clear that he saw every detail. The great river of Time flew between him and them, keeping them on separate banks, but even it was powerless to obstruct the view. Shaggy wanted nothing more than to swim across it and reach the opposite shore where he, though a foreigner, frantically believed he belonged. Yet this stream could not be crossed; he knew he would never have the so desperately desired opportunity to reach his destination. He would remain on his bank, eyes damp, zealously waving his hands to gain the attention of the denizens on the other side, a sight they were incapable of noticing.


	5. Chapter 5

PART 5: Shores Apart

"Be patient, Scoob," he said as he added a layer of ham to each of the yet incomplete sandwiches.

The Great Dane's attention was fully dedicated to the table and the items on its surface. If anybody had looked the dog in the eyes that moment, he would have gotten an impression that Scooby Doo was under hypnosis, so deeply mesmerized his stare was. He kept his mouth wide open, revealing his canine tongue. Shaggy just hoped his pet would not leave any drool on the table.

The young man continued with his engineering project, and slices of bacon fell on the two culinary monuments.

"Do you think we'd need ketchup with that?" he asked as he tried to evaluate his creation. Truly, making snacks was an art, so much passion one had to devote to it and the techniques that needed to be worked on until polished to perfection.

"Aga-aga-aga," Scooby gave his opinion, likely an expert one, as he frantically nodded his head an unknown number of times.

"I think you're right," he concluded and walked to the fridge. He took a tube of the required topping and returned to his place.

The dog returned to watching his favorite performance as Shaggy squirted ketchup on the two gastronomic brothers. A slice of bread was added to cover each, and with that, the workshop was complete.

"Here's yours," he said as he passed the Great Dane his sandwich; naturally, it was accepted.

Shaggy took his own sample and bit into it, the meaty taste making his mouth water even more. He wondered if it took him even a minute to consume the whole home-made product. The speed he did it with could only be rivaled by Scooby.

"Nothing better than a good snack to keep the day going, right Scoob?"

"You raid it, Raggy."

He quickly cleaned the table, and washed and dried his hands.

He exited the kitchen, his canine companion behind him. The living room was next on their way, and after, the entrance hall with a staircase that led to the next form.

"No! It's not gonna happen!" they heard a panic-filled but loud voice.

Its infantile features, familiar to the last note, immediately pointed out its carrier. He appeared in person just several moments later. Scrappy Doo did not come down the stairs—he raced down in such a hasty style that would have left anybody going the opposite way off their feet.

"Out of my way, guys!" he shouted as if he was frightened to the point of hysteria, and making a turn by the pair disappeared in a room opposite to the one they had just walked out.

Man and dog gave each other a look due to the strangeness of the situation. It really felt like a right time for a question.

"Scrappy, come back here!" sounded a voice that was both demanding and soft, a voice that belonged to neither the young man nor the bigger dog.

Then the duo saw Daphne carefully descending the stairs. She looked at the pair near the staircase's foundation and gave them a warm, genuine smile. Shaggy noticed that the redhead kept a hand behind her back.

"Scrappy, I am not playing games with you!" she called out to the pooch, still on the stairway.

No reply was given; the pup was definitely not eager to come across her.

"So that's how it's gonna be?" she asked the pup loud enough for him to hear, sparks of sarcasm dancing in her voice, "very well then."

With a few more steps, she ended up on ground level.

Shaggy really wanted to get an explanation. He opened his mouth but the redhead was quicker even though racing him was not her intention.

"Hey Scooby," Daphne addressed the pet, "Three Scooby snacks after we return if you fetch Scrappy for me…"

Scooby's enthusiastic look implied that he saw nothing unfair with the bargain's terms.

"…as long as you don't break anything," she quickly added just in case.

"Rokay," the Great Dane confirmed his interest in the deal.

He took a readying stance and flew into the same room Scrappy had fled just moments before.

"No, Uncle Scooby, don't! You are being deceived!" sounded Scrappy's desperate voice.

They heard the sound of a stool as it fell to the floor having been flipped over. The echoes of paws clanking against floor, an indication of running, reached out of the room.

"Please snap out of it!" the pup continued his pleas. Another sound indicated that one of them had leaped onto the bed via big jump.

"No!" the pooch cried out after several more moments of chaos, "Please don't! You don't know what fate you're dooming me to!"

Scooby Doo walked out of the room carrying his nephew like a newborn pup. Even then Scrappy attempted to get free but being gripped by the back of the neck made escape impossible.

"Like what gives, Daph," Shaggy asked his partner.

With one gesture she revealed the hand she kept behind her back all this time…and the item clutched in it, a leash. It was obvious now.

"No!" Scrappy yelled as he saw the serpentine form.

"Could you please hold him for me, Scooby," Daphne asked in her ever gentle tone.

A couple of steps, and she was besides the dogs.

"Stay away, Daphne, or I'll report you to a wildlife defense organization!" still struggling, he made a desperate attempt at a threat.

"Sure, go for it," she said, sarcasm to the fullest extent, as she kneeled before him to get the thing on him, "only there's one problem—you're not a wolf, nor a coyote, nor a dingo."

"I'm a representative of a rare type of endangered species! So I too am a dog of the wilderness!" the pup continued his zoological fables.

"Keep talking," she nodded.

She let out a sigh of annoyance as she failed to strap him due to his constant twitching.

"Oh, c'mon Scrappy, hold still!"

In spite of Scrappy's best efforts, Daphne ultimately achieved her aim.

The late spring weather was friendly and fresh. The sun in its zenith in the heavens above spread out its warm rays for an embrace with the earth. Several clouds served as additional decorations to the skies. The trees and leafs performed their quiet melodies all around them.

He walked by Daphne's side down a footpath as they talked about trivial domestic matters. The Great Dane had separated from their company a bit and ran around the park's green setting, exercising his paws. There were other dogs out there, and they came across their owners.

A man and his beagle passed them, a degree of attention for several seconds given to them…or one of them. He found it a somewhat, maybe just slightly, but an awkward site; a puppy was walking next to them, constantly mumbling something in annoyance. He was moving using only his back paws, but was nevertheless kept on a leash, the other end of which rested in the young lady's gentle hand. The pup threw the man and his dog a look that managed to unite a 'what-are-you-looking-at' notion and request to pity him, and turned away again.

"I look ridiculous with this nose around my neck," the pup made a complaint to his owners.

"Nonsense, Scrappy, you're as adorable as always," his guide tried to cheer him up but to no avail.

"Hey, stop staring at me!" he made a break at complaining in order to give a warning to a young collie.

"Remind me again why I am wearing this crummy leash?" he continued.

"So that I can keep an eye on you," Daphne said in her gently critical tone and turned to him.

"Because last time you tried to pick a fight with that nice old lady's Weenie-dog," she added a slight reminder.

"But he was laughing at my collar!" Scrappy said as he raised the metallic brooch with the 'S.D.' initials.

"But that doesn't justify you punching him!"

"He deserved it!"

"And then I had to search the park's width and breadth in order to find you two because you and Rupert had ran off to continue your quarrel!"

"You know his name!" Scrappy proclaimed in shock at what seemed like betrayal to him.

"Yes. That lady mentioned it when she asked me to also find him for her."

Shaggy shook his head lightly, biting his lower lip in order not to laugh. He had not witnessed the described events—he was outside of town that day, on a visit to an old pal of his; as often, Scooby accompanied him. Only when he returned that evening, did he find out about that incident from a still angry Daphne and a self-defensive Scrappy.

"But that doesn't justify you punishing me in such a manner!" the pup continued the debate.

"Believe me, you'll thank me for this when you're older," she said, "you need to learn, Scrappy. Imagine what might have happened to you if it was a German Shepard rather than a Weenie-dog you had picked a fight with?"

Shaggy had to admit she had a point. They continued their walk for a bit until they decided to sit down on the nearest bench. Scooby Doo very soon joined them, a stick in his mouth. He put it next to Shaggy and sat in an average canine position.

"You wanna play fetch?" Shaggy commented, and picking up the stick, threw it, Scooby in pursuit.

"If I let you go, do you promise not to get into any trouble?" he turned around when he heard the compassionate vice.

"Yes," the pooch replied, his expression now lighter.

Without a further question, the redhead unstapled the leash.

"Now go play with Scooby," she said.

Daphne might have been quite strict at times, but nevertheless she was always ready for a compromise. Moreover, Shaggy could see right through this trait of hers. In the basis of this strictness was not an attempt to impose her view of perfection…only care, genuine and unconditional. Daphne was deeply fond of Scrappy, just as much as she was of Scooby. She cared about their well-being, and ultimately the lesson she tried to teach the pup in this awkward manner was for his own good. Even Scrappy understood it somewhere deep inside, and never truly doubted their bond.

By the time they returned home the two were on good terms yet again. The pup was sitting in Daphne's lap; the redhead kept her hand on his tiny head, occasionally rubbing him behind the ear.

Shaggy smiled at the sight as he unfastened his seatbelt; the pattern was too evident. Both dogs easily accepted Daphne as their co-owner when she moved in with him. But if Scooby was undoubtedly Shaggy's dog, so much the duo in a range from panic to eating, then Scrappy, if one followed the same pattern, was Daphne's, their eagerness for mystery-solving as one of the examples. This was a continuation of a tendency that arose during their earlier adventures as a quartet, and a logical one, it had to be admitted.

Their dance in life continued. Days, like drops of rain, would come one by one and months would line up, eventually merging into years.

Shaggy staggered into the room and accommodated himself in a sofa. From his position he could see how Daphne was carried away by work. The redhead sat behind a desk, her back to him. Upon the wooden surface lay scattered several sheets, each full from top to bottom on both sides with notes she scribed on during her visit to the records office the day before. Daphne picked up one of the papers, the complete lack of motion hinting on the degree of attention to its contents. She then let go of it, and the sheet rejoined its companions on the table, making a rustling sound as it did.

Shaggy knew she was dedicated to her project. She was now working on another installment of her article series on criminality in different locations across America. He wondered why she had not chosen a series on a different, though this one did seem somewhat logical, taking their adventures into account. Still, he thought that a different theme seemed more suitable for her, like entertainment or youth culture.

Beyond doubt in those very moments another area was being added to the literary geography of her series. This was primary purpose of their coming to this Southern Californian town. They did not need to stay in a hotel, conveniently for them, the Blake family owned a nice two-story villa on the outskirts. In another display of the convenience, the population of the house these few days consisted of five: him, her, the dogs, and the caretaker. The atmosphere was serene, and a view of the charming Californian coast opened up through the windows. Original objective aside, it felt almost like a vacation.

"No, out of context," he heard her speak, maybe to herself, or perhaps to her notebook, as she heavily crossed out a statement.

Her right elbow on the desk, she held the pen in her hand, playing with it with her thin fingers. He had learned to decipher the meanings behind her gesticulations.

The redhead scrolled down another statement but made it null with another stripe of ink. The game with an instrument of writing continued. Shaggy knew Daphne, though skilled in journalism, tended to descend into fruitless writing attempt moments. Such cases were rare, but it was evident that these click outs were somewhat stressful to her, a person who usually wanted to follow a self-imposed schedule.

He stood up and made his way towards her in a journey of several seconds. Shaggy put his hands on her shoulders; he could feel their softness and warmth through the purple fabric of the elegant dress.

"Having another of those moments?" he asked, releasing a short chuckle, as he began to massage her shoulders.

He felt her ease up, and the young woman left her hand rest on the desk, freeing the pen from her grasp. For this moment she was not a reporter—she was just Daphne, gentle and playful.

"Yes," she replied to his question. Shaggy wondered if her eyes were closed.

"So how goes the therapy I'm performing?" he asked.

"Feels great."

"You know, Daph, perhaps you should call it for today, you can continue your project tomorrow," he made a suggestion.

"I don't think so…"she tried to disagree but did not have a chance to finish her quote.

"Oh, c'mon, Daph. I think I've figured out where the problem lies. It's a beautiful afternoon, and here you're sitting cramped in this room…or fancy office…or whatever it is," he looked left and right, trying to find the best term for the part of the dwelling they were in.

"Well excuse me, but that's my job, I am a reporter." Daphne turned to face him, her voice sounding both cheerful and annoyed.

"And I'm your personal assistant. That's my job, remember?" he satirized.

"Your role is to assist me in work—the opposite to what you're trying now."

"True," he acknowledged, "but I'm more than just your assistant," he brought his hand to her chin and cupped it delicately in a teasing reminder, "that's how I'm sure I know what's good for you."

"Very well, perhaps I really need to lighten up," she gave him a hand.

It was a beautiful day. There were so many options to choose from: go to the beach, stroll in the countryside, have lunch and ice-cream at a restaurant with an open terrace. But Daphne had another idea…

"It just had to be shopping," Shaggy commented, since he knew he had no reason to complain, being an instigator of this trip.

The store's numerous halls were open to them, each with its own paths and turns.

"Don't tell me you never experienced the feel of the magical lure of a mall?" the redhead asked as she gave him an arm-hug.

"You already know the answer."

"Well, your opinion might have changed since last time."

Shaggy wondered if he could be even more far from the point she described.

"_But as long as it makes her ease up, it's worth it_," he concluded.

"When I was talking about an alternative to being cramped in that office, I was implying the outdoors, not another four-walled space," he explained.

"The day is far from being over. There still time for that."

Shaggy did not have to be an oracle in order to know what the first stop in their excursion in this temple of trade would be. Predictably, it was the clothes section. Dresses, skirts, blouses and other items were hanging like decorations all around them. Different colors, different styles, and different prices on the tags—the diversity was certainly amazing.

He was standing next to her as she kept examining the outfits.

"Do you think that would look good on me?" she asked as she directed his attention to the attire. Shaggy tried analyzing…

"You'd look good in anything," he complimented her, "but since when did you start wearing jumpsuits?" the outfit was purple— her favorite color—but her choice was somewhat unusual.

"I haven't, but who knows, it might come in handy."

"Ok, go try it on."

Daphne was right on time management. Shaggy admitted it as he walked with her by the seashore near the villa later on. Her feet submerged in the refreshing sea water to ankle level, Daphne carried her shoes in her hand. He kept a tiny distance from her in order to avoid getting his feet and footwear by the maneuvering waves.

"So how's the water?" he asked.

"Nice and pleasant," she praised in an advise to join her, "C'mon, Shaggy, try it!"

The young man found himself unable to turn down her request but that did not bother him.

The wind gently stroke Daphne's red hair, the tresses waving lightly in the breeze. Her blue-green eyes were shining, to him their gleam that moment rivaling that of the sun. The maritime background revealed new facets of her allure.

He thought even the best painter would fail to depict the whole beauty of this scene. He again acknowledged how lucky he was—for him she was perfect in looks and persona.

Still, there was one issue he did not know in those blissful moments. He would have probably not thought it possible that his future self could envy him.


	6. Chapter 6

PART 6: Symphony of Damnation

The bright beams of the projectors, their sharpness comparable to the rays of the sun, were aimed at them. The two stood in the center of attention, their next move awaited by everybody with eagerness. He himself felt the suspense of the moment, the unparalleled feeling of being the king of the screen, even if only for a moment. Every word, every comment, even every gesture, was accompanied by encouragement and applauses. The studio was like a pot where interest was boiling like water with all other ingredients already added and it was necessary to make sure that the needed nectar was not underdone.

He had to admit—being in the spotlight was really great, classic, epic…the right words could be put in a line.

"So what's it gonna be, boys?" the announcer, his smile as stylish as his suit, finally addressed them after a pause and thinking time.

"Will you be trading for the plane…" with those words, his assistant brought everyone's attention to the big red-grey winged form that still somehow managed to fit in the studio.

"…the house…" somewhat misleading, what their charismatic host was referring to was a devoutly and ingeniously designed dog-booth, a small marvel of architecture but a marvel nevertheless.

"…or what's in…the box?" as he continued the bargain like an experienced trader, he highlighted the final word, his tone for some unknown reason sounding somewhat insidious in Shaggy's ears, but he thought it was just a vocal effect.

The final item was inferior to its predecessors in both size and splendor; an ordinary chest a person would be able to hold with two hands. The play of colors, red and dark, did not add any elegance to it, and the only decoration—if it could even be called one— gave an impression of being copied from a bas-relief from a Gothic cathedral. Whoever crafted that definitely had had a bad time the day before—so grim it was. On the bright side, it was not the chest itself that was at bid but its mysterious contents that might have lay anywhere in a range between a half-eaten apple and a yacht.

The time to make the final choice was now. Common sense told that there was only one option—the plane, but logic was not fully operational that moment. Not between Scooby's begging for the house and the cacophony of voices in favor of the mystifying box.

"The box! The box!" the shouts coming from the audience continued. Strangely, the carriers of those voices and the platform that accommodated them did not stand in Shaggy's view but he came to a conclusion that the studio's layout was to blame.

The calls were so encouraging and certain that Scooby too submitted to them. The owner and the pet exchanged whispers only to conclude that their decision was a shared one.

"We'll take…"he started, speaking on behalf of them both, "…the box!" he too emphasized the word, in homage to the announcer.

Their decision was met by another round of applauding; horns were blown in ovation. And somewhere in this symphony, the faint melody of common sense was left unheard.

"Care to comment on your decision?" the ever-confident host passed the young man the microphone as he rejoined them by their side.

"Well, let's just say it was a dumb hunch," Shaggy replied to his enquiry, his explanation ending with his trademark light chuckle.

The table crowned with their choice of prize was quickly wheeled to them by the assistant.

"Well, let's see how dumb this hunch of yours really is!" the announcer concluded, his witty remark fused with light but still fiendish traits.

He placed his hands on the chest, Scooby doing the same. Together they pushed the lid up while what they thought as millions of pairs of eyes across the households of America were at them. They heard a distant but familiar voice call out to the Great Dane in a warning, but it was too late…They would hear the bearer of that voice several seconds later commenting in a accepting semi-defeatist manner: 'Never mind'.

The duo actually headed that voice, yet the chest's lid was already slightly open, so it made no difference…

He initially thought it was part of the surprise. The chest virtually erupted as if a geyser sprung out of it, yet not a single geyser in the known world had waters of a fiery red color. Could this weird content be compared to volcanic magma? They were truly comparable in fury, but the similarity ended there. Lava radiated unparalleled heat—whatever this was did not. It did not even feel physical for that matter…Everything became even more bizarre and got decorated with dread when the crown of this pillar took shape. It resembled a skull, a deformed one with mountain goat-like horns. This frightening phenomenon now seemed like a real-life model to the chest's bas-relief. In a repulsive, in light of the moment, twist of criticism, it had to be admitted that a piece of art could not truly capture the full traits of its source of inspiration.

The bas-relief looked though ugly but lifeless nevertheless, its model, on the other hand, released an aura of horror around the place. Infernal flames were burning in the eyeless sockets; the non-physical skull lacked a lower jaw that could complete a mouth, but the blazing beam that might have been both neck and tongue brought the same associations to its maw. A sound, hissing and howling at the same time, cut the air.

"What is that?" the horror of the mere sight making breathing hard, the panic-filled pair called out to their host as if the latter was a guide and guardian, frantically hoping to find an acceptable answer.

"Thirteen ghosts in a wide variety of shapes and powers!" the charismatic voice of the announcer had disappeared completely, replaced by an accent of madness, "And they're all yours!" he proclaimed the last part with the zeal of a sadist.

The pair of demonic orbs was staring back at them, and for the first time in his life Shaggy Rogers thought he met the true gaze of the fiery abyss…

If this anomaly had remained static, that would have been enough for a redeeming side. However, there was more to it than a blazing geyser. A wave of force was unleashed that threw the duo and the chest aside. The surroundings changed and now resembled what it was supposed to be—the dark chamber of a centuries-old abandoned temple. The only thing that now illuminated the area was the ghostly form. It had undergone a change, morphing into a ram-like shape but still embellished by its skull regalia.

The combined avatar of the thirteen ghosts lost no time and proceeded forward, driven only by its twisted demonic glory.

"Just listen to them cheer, Bogle! Those demons love us!" the one who had posed as the game's host told his 'assistant', admiring the result of their efforts. The guises were now off as they stood in their authentic appearances…those of ghosts.

"And they're coming here to thank us!" his accomplice gave his interpretation of the supernatural kinesis.

They took proud poses, adored smiles on their ethereal faces in preparation for the ovation they thought they would get. Yet gratitude was a term unfamiliar to the damned. The infernal ram simply ran over them, molding them to the stone floor in a reminder of their respective places in the hierarchy and that a lord would not shake hands with a serf.

The abomination continued its movement, no obstacle capable of standing in the way. It did not really go through walls: a hole of its size and shape was left when it passed, as if an unknown vapor had eaten away the solid stone. The same fate befell the temple's outer wall; the work of ancient masonry that had stood through time and cold was not ready to be tested by the paranormal.

The joint incarnation of the thirteen did not roll anymore—it flew further in the heavens, following a set trajectory. Then it disappeared in a great red flash that engulfed the sky; a lone burst of thunder as it happened.

Thirteen scarlet fires were swirling in the skies above in paths unnatural for all known celestial phenomena. The howls did not cease—it felt that the world itself was screaming, wretched by the reincarnated but long-familiar evil. The fires whirled for a bit more before they flashed like falling stars, each in its own direction, leaving behind them crimson trails as if the sky itself was bleeding.

"There go thirteen of the foulest specters and ghouls on Earth!" commented their new acquaintance, the sorcerer Vincent van Ghoul as they stood by the newly-made hole, "And they'll haunt the world until they're returned to the chest", even his ever-confident manner could not hide his stun.

A question slid Shaggy's lips, and in response, the warlock handed the chest that he made materialize in his hands to the Great Dane with a recommendation to figure it out themselves. The young man tried to object but the sorcerer's argument was unbeatable.

"The ghosts can only be captured by those who set them free," he said, "meaning you!" he emphasized it with a gesture.

The cold Himalayan wind that waved his cloak made spellcaster and his speech more mystifying. Another object materialized in his hand, the spherical shape of a crystal ball. Shaggy, just like the other members of the gang had come across such items before, but something told him that, unlike previous cases, this was a working one.

Vincent handed it to Daphne with an explanation on its purpose and a joke about finding him in the yellow pages.

It was now official: a new adventure was beginning. The plane got into the air again, although Shaggy could not understand the mechanics of keeping an engine running on some sort of juice-cocktail-shampoo-whatever liquid. And truth to tell, he did not even care that much. He was glad that the grim scenery was now behind, and disappeared completely hidden by the cotton-themed clouds. Nevertheless he left with a substitute of a souvenir from the unplanned travel destination. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw the familiar sight of the blazing horned skull, a vision that prompted him to stay awake.

He wondered if he was the only one to go through it or did the same was happening to Scooby as well. He would ask some other time—he had enough nightmarish sensations for one day.

He was sitting quietly in the kitchen. The temple was now far away in Tibet or Northern India, or whatever land it was; the ghosts had scattered across the four corners of the world; and the unpleasant spoils of his win remained with him. The words of the mysterious sorcerer kept replaying in his mind. The full scale of the problem was hard to comprehend; these were real ghosts, not masked criminals, and so the rules by which the game was played were now different.

Shaggy turned to the fridge. Heating lasagna sounded like a good idea, but unnaturally, his mouth did not water at the thought. There was one thing dominating his mind: stun. The rotten taste of shock from the nightmarish sight could have spoiled any following meal. No point in wasting food by spitting it out, especially if the problem was not in it. Perhaps neglecting supper this evening was not a bad idea…but by such thoughts he could tell something was wrong with him. He was afraid the infernal gaze made more damage than an average scary sight. He might need to have a session with a psychologist or maybe with a mystic even.

"_So much for the relaxing vacation_," he thought as he stood up and left the kitchen.

He found the dogs in the living room, in the company of their other new acquaintance, Flim Flam. The Asian kid was entertaining the dogs with his tricks.

"So guys, where's the ball?" he asked them, referring to the tiny object hidden underneath one of the three cups before him.

"Ri now!" Scooby replied, "Rit's here!" he pointed at the cup on the left.

"My thought exactly, Uncle Scooby," the pooch agreed, "it's here!"

The boy lifted the cup up but the only thing hidden underneath it turned out to be the area of the carpet it had covered. Flim Flam revealed its location—under the central one. The two dogs exchanged surprised glances.

"How does he do it?" Scrappy asked.

The kid turned his head upward.

"Hey there, Shaggy!" he greeted him, "wanna join in?"

"No thanks, maybe next time," he politely declined the invitation.

"You don't know what you're missing," Scrappy said, "Flim Flam is an ace at this."

Shaggy wondered. What terminology could best describe the boy's presence in their household? They had agreed to take him with them; his skills could definitely prove useful in the hunt for the thirteen ghosts. But how would one define it legally? Adoption? They had not filled any papers. Did they simply smuggle him into the country? Somehow it seemed like it. Did the kid even have a passport, and if so, the citizenship of what country did he hold? Beyond doubt, they would need to sort out this issue, otherwise they risked a visit from the man from the illegal immigration control board and who knew who else.

He left them to their game as he made his way to the staircase. There was enough time to visit a lawyer, a consultant, or psychologist later; he had seen enough representatives of different backgrounds in the last twenty-four hours—ghosts, warlocks, self-isolationist villagers with a curse over their heads. There was only one person he still wanted to see that day.

The door to their room was open, so he saw her straight away. She was standing by the window, her back to him. She had not spoken to him throughout the duration of the return flight.

He approached her unnoticeably, and gently wrapping his hands around her, gave his partner a loving kiss on the cheek.

"Cozying up to me won't make me soften up on you, Shaggy," she replied unemotionally, continuing to look at the view outside.

These words were probably second only to the Demon Chest when it came to disturbing feelings, but Shaggy did not lose the ground beneath him.

"Oh, c'mon, Daph," he said, patting her shoulder, "don't tell me you're angry because of a failed vacation. Remember, you wanted us to go to Bali rather than Hawaii?" he kept his cool, but unfortunately that did not guarantee winning the case.

"It's not about the vacation," she started just as remotely as before, "I'm angry because you set a group of the worst undead free."

She stepped out of his embrace before turning to him. To him, churning her last words was like a brick in the face.

"I…" he wanted to find what did not exist, a proper response.

"Me and Scooby…we were tricked," he finally mumbled.

But that was not new information to the redhead; he and the dog described the incident on their way home.

"Well, I can understand Scooby, but what were YOU thinking about when all of it was happening?" Daphne put her hands on her hips in annoyance.

That was another score for her, he had to admit.

He remembered those glittering scenes: the stage and its equipment, the sun-like lights of the projectors, the applauses of the audience…and how all of it just disappeared in a few moments after the opening of the chest. The latter fact was additionally chilling. The host and assistant turned out to be fakes—that meant the background was fake as well. It was unsettling to think that all of this was just an illusion, a skilled deception for the eye. It had felt so real, but then again, so was the trait of the genre of deceit.

Yet the scariest part arose when he remembered the voices, cheering and encouraging, the influence of which played a significant role in the drama that unfolded. Were they too an illusion? Or perhaps the ancient walls of the silent monastery hid inside more than two ghosts? Shaggy felt as if a handful of snow fell down the back of his neck. The notion that he and Scooby opened the chest under the stares and clapping of a legion of specters nearly made him shake and be grateful of the ignorance he displayed back then.

And of course there was the third option—those voices were coming from inside the chest itself. That was the most troubling in the whole selection. The Thirteen then were not just messing with his but having withdrawn their musical instruments made him dance under their tune like a circus bear.

He made a brief account of the incident, referencing the newest interpretations.

"It was some sort of illusion or something. It felt so real…" he said in the end, explaining it to Daphne and reminding it to himself.

"And you didn't notice the absurdity of the whole situation?" as displayed by her tone, Daphne remained unconvinced.

"Sorry, didn't get you there," he said.

"So you mean you didn't find it illogical that a famous American game show was held in an abandoned Buddhist monastery somewhere in the Himalayan region? Not at a studio in Los Angeles or New York, for example?" she continued her assault, "Where was your logical thinking?" she added.

She was right yet again, but in this case, against their shared wishes, every point for her was a stab with a knife for him. The feeling with the opening of the chest had left him was stun, but now he felt guilt join it on the pedestal. The new emotion quickly pushed its rival of the dais. He was now ashamed, and Daphne's words provided the reason.

"I…they played their cards right," his breathing trembled, he felt bitter, but he had to say something in his defense.

"Only because you agreed to play by their rules!" she snapped, "Moreover, wasn't picking the plane common sense? Think about it?"

It was probably the heat of the moment, but he was feeling so dumb that he thought even a slice of cheese would have made a pick logically in his place.

"C'mon, Daphne, don't be like this," he requested—no, made a plea to reach out to her.

"Fine," she had mercy on him, "but I hope you understand how much you goofed there."

She walked to the bookshelves and picked up a random tome; the redhead sat down into a chair and opened the book. It was not hard to understand the reasoning—this was a method to divert her attention from an unpleasant topic, not because she suddenly got an interest in reading a volume. Shaggy calmly walked out of the room, not wishing to act as a further irritant.

He found refuge in a guest room; there he lay on his back in bed. His eyes were closed, yet his mind remained awake. He was thinking but not about ghosts, but about his blunder, his act of ultimate stupidity. He wondered if there was a deed in the world that could ever redeem him…

He did not know for how long he had stayed in this trance. He heard the door open but he could not say if it happened in the dream or the real realm. The intruder sat on the bed beside him.

He felt a soft palm caress his cheek, a touch so pleasantly familiar.

"You're not sleeping, are you," sounded a gentle voice, not in a question but affirmation.

"Daphne," he slowly opened his eyes, and taking her hand into his, brought it to his lips.

"I hope I wasn't too hard on you," she said in her traditional caring tone; her anger seemed to have disappeared.

"Think nothing of it," he said as he sat up, still holding her hand in his.

"Do you forgive me?" he asked her.

"You didn't actually betray me for me to forgive you," she smiled as she lightly squeezed his arm in reassurance.

He buried his face in her hair as they embraced and decided to leave that quarrel behind.

"Daphne," he whispered lovingly as he barely managed to hold a tear from escaping.

He was hoping love melted the icy wall that was keeping them apart from each other earlier that evening, but he was not sure, a familiar inner voice unconvinced by his desperate hope.

He would later admit that few things disappear without a trace, and unfortunately, that was not the case. He had opened the chest; though it was not the shout in the mountainous heights to bring about an avalanche, yet it was a portion of snow on the slope that contributed to it.

—

**Author's Note**: Hope you liked my take on the pilot episode of the '13 Ghosts of Scooby Doo', folks.


	7. Chapter 7

PART 7: Tangled in the Arts

It was that time again. The time some of them waited eagerly, checking the calendar on a daily basis and almost crossing out the printed numbers as the fabled date was approaching.

The time of another TV marathon.

All the required provision was nearly done. Popcorn making was on its final stages, and soon they would be able to enjoy the dry crunching taste. The chips were always ready, luckily the nature of this snack was a real time-saver; the same applied to the soda pop. The only thing left was to bring the treats into the room and a great time of late-night TV watching was guaranteed.

Shaggy just hoped that night's entertainment would be different than that of the previous time when they stayed up late. That time they really got consumed by the program, literally; that movie was truly a living one. Probably every person in the world at least on one occasion wondered how it would feel like to be a character in a movie, to see it from a first perspective. He was one of the people to know the answer…since they had been transported into one. And that feeling was not a romanticized one. But on the bright side, the demon that made it possible was imprisoned once more, so this evening's showcase had positive promises.

They brought the snacks into the sitting room, spreading them on a small table in front of the sofa.

"Five minutes left, guys," said Flim Flam, looking at the wall clock.

They all sat down on the sofa. There were four of them, but the company remained incomplete— they were waiting for one more person to join in. The gang did not hear the footsteps, so light the walk was; only a voice heralded the newest arrival.

"I assume everything is ready," sounded a voice so specific it felt one of a kind.

It could have been only one person.

"You're just in time, Vince!" the Asian kid was the first to turn aside and reply.

Shaggy too looked into the same direction. The sorcerer was standing in the doorway. The evening dark was truly his element; the darkened surroundings granted an extra amount of enigma to the cloaked figure. Even as he stood there, right in their house, one could not truly tell that moment if he was a man, a phantom, or a ploy of the moonlight.

Vincent passed by them, his grey-red cloak sailing behind him as he made way to the chair beside the sofa, his designated place. The club was now complete; Daphne was not a fan of staying up late for something she did not like, so her presence was not expected.

"Are those chips salted?" Vincent asked, referring to the snack that brought his attention.

"No, peppered ones, Vince," Shaggy said.

The warlock took one.

Shaggy had gotten accustomed to the sorcerer's mannerisms; he had all the reasons to—Vincent van Ghoul had been a guest at their house for five days as his castle was going trough some redecoration—something that would probably not make that household more elegant in Shaggy's eyes. In these five days of his visit, the warlock's character, usually clouded by mystery, was opened up. For a person so serious and powerful, he still displayed features of an infantile character. Like a child, he constantly expected to be served in almost everything, wasting no time to complain whenever the tiniest flaw in service was spotted. One fact had to be acknowledged—the ways of easy life were powerful enough to make even a grim-themed mage submit to them.

Van Ghoul's relationship with the gang was a story in itself. He was initially mad at him and Scooby for releasing the thirteen; he had all the reasons for it. Yet he quickly dropped his anger. Shaggy, in some way, could even call him a friend. The last part was a topic for another research work.

Scrappy took the remote and turned the set on. The first channel flickered into an appearance on the screen, an irrelevant one. Several seconds was enough to watch some random late night talk-show.

The young dog made a switch for the correct channel. Unfortunately, only disappointment awaited them. The screen went dark, initially almost leading to the notion that the set had gone out. There was only one give-away; a short message stayed on the bottom of the screen like a footnote on a page. No other combination of words could have revealed as much as much as this one did. There were only two words but they made the message as clear as the skies of July: 'No signal'. Technical problems, a bane to any station or viewer household, made another poisonous strike.

There would be no marathon that evening.

"Oh," sounded several voices, scratched by disappointment, in unison.

"You know what this means, guys: no movie night," Flim Flam concluded.

Shaggy looked at the table in front of him; so did the Great Dane. The snacks lay before them in their delicious glory—a silver lining to any cloud, dark or cotton-white. It was not like all the stations had not gone off the air, so where was the problem?

He grabbed a handful of popcorn. Scooby became the second to lean towards the bowl.

"So what are we gonna do now?" Scrappy asked, his eyes still on the empty screen as the desperate hope that everything would still be their way remained with him.

"I think I know a good alternative," the most unexpected phrase sounded with the voice of Vincent van Ghoul.

"Don't tell me you want to watch a talk-show, Vince?" said the kid in his entrepreneurial tone.

"No," the mystic replied.

Shaggy had a wild hunch he knew what the sorcerer was implying, but taking the guest's character into account, that hunch felt so wild that it made a jungle seem suburbia…

"Then what?" the kid asked.

"Why literature of course," Vincent said, smiling, and with a gesture of the hand made the lights go on.

That was a logical choice coming from him, and it did not need to bring out any additional questions.

"Gee, Mister van Ghoul, are you gonna read us a story?" Scrappy asked excited, not sitting but standing on the sofa.

"I can if you insist," was the reply that felt as though the decision had already been made.

With another click on the remote, the dog made the TV set go off; the message disappeared from view, but that was virtually the only thing that changed visually.

"Oh, boy!" Scrappy made a single clap, "will it be a scary story?"

"The first request accepted," Vincent chuckled, "although it's not actually a story."

A book materialized in his hand, a tome in brown-grey hardcover, its thickness hinting it was at least three hundred pages. Being a mage was probably awesome—one could get a snack from the fridge without going to the kitchen.

"What's this book?" Flim Flam asked.

"An anthology of poems I wrote and had published some years ago," he explained in his ever-cool manner.

That was not surprising. Vincent always seemed the creative type, and even during their adventures he was capable of utilizing fleeing seconds by making up two- and four-liners. Still, Shaggy could have never guessed he was a published author.

"_Who knew?_" the young man thought.

"The collection's title is _The Abandoned Crypt_," Vince gave a short foreword.

Shaggy was not that enthusiastic about it to begin with, and now that the title was revealed…

"Why is it called this way?" he asked; he felt something uncomfortable, and it that was not the seat.

"It's derived from the title of one the poems in this anthology," the warlock answered, "It's called _The Crypt Was Left Abandoned_…" he made his voice raspier for the last part.

"Which is the poem I am about to read out now," he released another of his unforgettable chuckles before making a witty remark, "so sit yourselves comfortably, everybody."

Why did it have to be a poem on such a theme? He was not in the mood for it; he never had been.

The sorcerer opened the book.

"Hey Vince," he had to say it; otherwise nightmares would likely haunt him all night.

"Yes."

"Do you have any poems about something different? Like butterflies, for example?" that was probably his last chance.

"Rah, rutterflies," Scooby sang along, in a display of their shared literary tastes.

"Sorry, guys, unfortunately I don't," Vincent said, "but there is a poem about a fly."

"Ok, that's a compromise," Shaggy said with the bigger dog nodding in agreement, "you may start, Vince."

"Very well then," the visiting author said as he turned the page after page as he aimed at that poem.

"Ah, here it is," he placed a thumb against the page for a second and read out the title, "_A Tribute to a_ _Fly_."

He tore his gaze of the page and closed the book.

"I just came up with a better idea," he said as he put the tome aside, "I'll read it by heart! That would definitely make the verses come to life."

Vincent stood up as if he was an actor performing a monologue on the stage. And then he began:

_Throughout my years of work and tax,_

_I owned and ran a house of wax,_

_And I must add—t'was quite a deal,_

_That house stood on a haunted hill._

_And so a sight once shocked my eye,_

_It was a horrid mutant fly!_

_The monster entered through my door,_

_And warned me, hissing: 'Nevermore'…_

"No! Oh, great heavens above my head! The creature!" he proclaimed in a tone stained with nothing but horror as he pointed at the window, "It's there by the window! It found me again!"

"Zoinks!" Shaggy, startled, brought his head to his knees, covering it with both hands, hoping it was enough for salvation.

"Rayks!" he heard Scooby's raspy shout before he, by the vibration that followed, understood that the Great Dane ducked under the coffee table.

"Where is that nasty mutant?" he heard Scrappy's feisty voice and an accompanying issue of a challenge, "Why, I'll take the bug spray. I'll splat him!"

"Now, now, gentlemen, let's not be jumpy," Vincent's quasi-serious statement changed the state of affairs, "There's nothing out there. I was just getting you into the atmosphere of my work."

"Ah, so it was just that," he felt relieved as he sat up straight although his heart continued beating on an unnatural pace.

Then something clicked in his mind. Did the sorcerer say 'atmosphere'?

"Gee, Mister van Ghoul, that was a neat special effect," Scrappy complimented.

"Thank you, Scrappy. Now everybody, back into your seats! I haven't even finished the introduction!"

Shaggy rolled his eyes; so it was just the beginning of the beginning…

The poet proceeded with his tale:

_My mere survival was at stake!_

_And that's no flu or fewer!_

_I felt the chill, began to shake,_

_Succumbing to the thriller…_

If these verses had been recited in an unknown language, they would have probably sounded just as sinister. It was not just the content but the manner in which the sorcerer performed his poem. But the former mattered as well. Verse after verse sounded in the room, transferring the audience to the scene without any portal. It was a grim realm indeed. A sense of fatalism was in the air, its proportion so huge that when one inhaled it whilst breathing, it burned the lungs like poisonous gas. One could not see the monster nor the antique furniture in the background; all had just melted away; there was now only darkness, the darkness of hopelessness and the unknown…

That was the atmosphere of Vincent van Ghoul's poem, the sphere in which his creations dwelt…

Still, Vince was full of surprises; he threw them like wild cards when the opportunity was to arise…

The poem that started out like an insight into the last thoughts of a doomed mortal, turned into another direction. It was hard to imagine it could lead to a discussion—between a man and mutant, for that matter,—about man's place in the universe, on the chances of peaceful coexistence, and even touch the question of the purposes of literature.

He read out the final lines:

_Since then it sits above my door,_

_And we are friends forevermore._

"The end," Vincent made an official statement, "Don't you just love heart-warming stories?" he added.

Shaggy really wanted to ask if he was serious about that question. By the way Scooby had been clinging to him throughout most of the reading session, made him think the sorcerer was using a different vocabulary.

"I have to say, I'm not much into poetry but that was actually quite good," the Asian boy complimented.

"Why thank you, Flim Flam."

"Will you read us the other one you mentioned?" Scrappy asked with enthusiasm.

"I don't see why not…" Vince chuckled.

That was a sign it was time to split; a light elbow bump from Scooby was another signal. One such horror story was enough for the evening; a poem with the title 'The Crypt Was Left Abandoned' had a guarantee on nightmares with it.

"Well, me and Scooby have to get going," he said and the Great Dane nodded in agreement; they both stood up.

"Oh, c'mon you two," Vince said, neither desperate nor disappointed, "Remember what the ancients said: life is short but art is eternal."

"Well, the snacks are on the table, they can drop in for a poetry evening if they wish," Shaggy kept his ground.

The famous phrase that Vincent van Ghoul cited that moment visited him as an echo years later. It made him remember the awkward evening and the eccentric wordsmith. As always, everything came down to perspective. Art had many genres; tragedy was one of them, and his even had its own Muse. Yet he did not feel himself an artist…

—

**Author's Note**: I didn't want to turn this into a filler chapter but this scene turned out to be too long and not linkable to any considered sequence, but hope it was worth it.

Oh, and there probably won't be an update in the next two weeks.


	8. Chapter 8

PART 8: Trail of the Legion

In a way, it was again like old times. Just as in those days, so distant and wind-flown, there were the pieces that had to be gathered into a single mosaic. It was not just an adventure—it was a mystery, a phenomenon that released a sort of aura of nostalgia. He almost felt that two familiar shapes would materialize amidst them; a broad-shouldered young man with hair the color of wheat and a female, the ever-present spectacles on the nose and a long orange sweater her main distinction. Then would come the moment when they would be joined by a third addition, the one that would jump out of the shadows, the costume on his shoulders and mask on his face fright-striking and malicious.

None of this happened this time. The incarnation of the team was different, and the newest antagonists worked in original ways.

The trail led them back to the TV studio. Though it was a clue that once again guided them to their destination, it was gained in a manner that too confirmed the thought that they were not reliving a case similar to their past ones. In the past clues were not attained during run-ins with zombies…real ones…

The hall was gloomy, illuminated only by several light bulbs as if the management, short on cash, wanted to save on electricity.

"There it is," Daphne said, referring to the door.

Upon it two words were engraved, a simple sign of navigation: 'Boris Kreepoff''.

They did not have an invitation; they would not have received it had they asked, but they did not need it.

The redhead put her hand on the knob, and the door was open with one push. It seemed that the eccentric host was so overconfident that he forgot to close the door while he was basking in the thought of his cleverness.

Kreepoff was not a standard celebrity, and, non-surprisingly, his studio room tried to be simplest to the maximum. A desk with a chair stood against the wall opposite to them, a cheap-looking wardrobe in the corner, the almost monastic plainness was disturbed by a coffee table and a chair in a another spot.

Still one thing felt out of context. Above the desk hang a drawing that resembled a plan, the angles hinting on a building. Kreepoff was not an engineer, at least not to anybody's knowledge. Shaggy thought that perhaps it was a fantasy house the weird man dreamed of having and kept the drawing as eye-candy.

"Hey, that's the floor plan of the temple where the Chest of Demons was found," Daphne probably got a glimpse of the structure when their plane was taking off that fateful day; that was the only explanation why she recognized it.

So that was not a fantasy house…

When they entered the room itself, Flim Flam was the one to find a missing object.

"And that's the book Vincent was talking about," he directed their attention at a manuscript that lay on the table, the one called 'The Grand Tome of the Chest of Demons'.

So came the harvest of discoveries.

"And these are plane tickets to Tibet," Scrappy said upon picking upon the items from the coffee table.

"Now if we could only find a clue…" Shaggy commented.

"These are clues!" Daphne snapped, annoyance unclothed "Boris Kreepoff flew to Tibet and stole Mister van Ghoul's book."

Her reaction to his comment was like a wet floor beneath his feet. He did not like the tendency. Ever since the quarrel between them that followed the opening of the chest, the redhead had become less tolerant towards his more simplistic traits he had the misfortune of displaying, making cold remarks or snapping at him like just seconds before. And what was worse was that she did not bother hearing the second part. He meant a clue that revealed it was Kreepoff, and not another set-up, a few of those already happened in one evening…

The small but noticeable rips that had begun appearing in his relationship with Daphne distracted him from the main discussion. He heard the exchange of suspicions between his teammates. He did not take part until another person came forward with his own account.

As unexpectedly as usual, Vincent van Ghoul appeared out of thin air, making them aware of his own findings in the oddest source…

"This TV guide states," he said holding the paper in his hand, "tonight Boris Kreepoff will open the fabled Chest of Demons on national television."

A few seconds after reading the new info out, the sorcerer made a revelation.

"Tonight is the Winter Solstice. Whoever opens the chest tonight will wield all the power in the universe."

The mystery was now solved and the culprit revealed, but the real deal was only beginning. Kreepoff had to be stopped. Mere minutes at their disposal, the gang exited the room in a race with astrology.

They ran through the narrow halls of the station until they found themselves in a familiar sector. The bright light of the projectors reached out to them from the open entrance of one of the studios. They were almost there. The team entered the room as the host was giving an introduction to the edition's main feature in his accented, semi-moaning voice.

"You can't do this, Boris!" Vince proclaimed when the gang made their grand entrance on the stage.

"Hasn't stopped him before," sounded a voice, non-caring but neither antagonistic.

Shaggy looked at its wielder. It was not Boris. His face as deformed as Nosferatu's, he stood beside the camera, the cap on his head giving away his status. He was the director.

"If you open the chest, you will unleash unspeakable horrors," the sorcerer explained, no doubt hoping to get to his friend that was lost somewhere in Kreepoff's twisted conscience.

"Hideous demons will be set free!" Daphne sang along.

"And the world as we know it will end," van Ghoul's voice took on a deeper note as he gave the warning. In those moments, curiosity itself begged the question of how far the sorcerer was ready to go in order to prevent the looming catastrophe.

"I don't believe you!" Boris denounced him, but then disregarded his own sentence, "Besides, I will finally be able to get back at you for humiliating me back at Terror Tech!"

"_So much for their friendship_," Shaggy could not help but formulate a witty conclusion.

"That's not true," Vincent tried to protest.

"You were always popular with the ghouls!"

If that last statement had carried a gun, Shaggy would have been lying dead on the studio's floor. There were many reasons which were capable of descending a man into madness. Yet this one went over all expectations. It would have been funny had the world not been endangered.

"Can I help it that I'm so irresistible?" as if armageddons were a trivial thing, Vincent made an ego-trips

"Can we get the show going?" the director, afraid they were off-schedule urged. It seemed like Boris was not the only insane member of staff.

"And what a show it will be," Boris said, his gaze turned to the camera, "For when I open this chest, all the power in the universe will be mine!" he had a show to host, and he would remain dedicated to his objective until the final shot.

"Correction. The power is mine!" they were joined by a new voice, a high-pitched one this time.

Everybody turned towards the entrance and the newcomer. She stood there leaning against the wall. Her cold features agreed with her make-up style and tasteless green robe.

"Tallulah, what are you doing here?" Daphne asked.

The soothsayer remained silent for several seconds.

"I have come to claim my prize," she then explained, "The Chest of Demons!"

The predatory manner in which she pronounced the last four words hinted that she too stood on the opposite barricade.

"Foolish mortals! You thought I was a mere medium. But in reality I'm…" a gold-green aura engulfed her as she was about to finish.

"…Zimbulu, the Lion Demon!" roared the being that replaced her.

The creature's self-introducing made the best summary. Incredibly muscular, its torso united human and cat-like features. Its limbs ended with paws. His head was that of a lion, mane his hair, though a pair of horns on the side was a deviance from the standard image of the wild cat.

To Shaggy, its chimeran appearance raised an association with someone else….the Jaguaro, the half-ape, half-feline beast they came across in the Amazonian jungles years before. However, that abomination at least had a redeeming side: it was fake. Zimbulu on the other hand, was true supernatural evil.

"You're a lying demon alright," Scrappy went into feisty mood.

"Seize him!" Zimbulu gave the command, but he did not mean the pooch.

Two ghostly forms rose from underneath the floor by Kreepoff's sides, and grabbing the host by both hands, pulled him away from the chest.

Perhaps it would have been possible to snatch the chest…had not the demon cast a spell that made immobile for several seconds, just enough time he needed.

With heavy stomps Zimbulu walked to the chest and kneeled before it.

"Now all the power in the universe will be mine!" he unleashed a throaty laughter.

Putting his massive paw on the lid, he roughly pulled it open. Those who dwelled inside the chest immediately gave greetings. They burst out of the container, once more incarnated in joint never before seen temporary forms, these time three rather than a single one. Flapping their leather wings heavily, the gargoyles of hell were circling around Zimbulu in celebration of their victory. The demons knew how to present themselves in ways that made their spectacle shake the viewer to the core.

"All is lost!" Vincent said, assessing the direness of the situation.

It was almost over; the only thing left for The Lion Demon to do was to turn the power he was one step from harvesting against them in order to secure his future.

However, even the mightiest titan had a weak spot. Zimbulu too was not invincible. Flim Flam, who managed to make a strategic retreat when the ordeal began returned reequipped. His choice of weapon would have made an adversary laugh on the battlefield, but they were not at a theatre of war, and the enemies were far from the average. It resembled a vacuum cleaner, the most ordinary appliance.

He addressed the heralds of darkness with a sharp comment and turned the switch. Luckily for the team, Zimbulu had not gained full power by that moment; his defeat was sealed.

The winged monstrosities were quickly sucked into the device. Their hybrid comrade was more enduring. He saw his plan crumble around and his two ghostly aides, the ever-lackeys Bogle and Weerd, abandon him, fearing their own imprisonment.

"Cowards!" his curse was directed at his disrespected servants before he lost his stance and rejoined his kin in the trap. The kid then disposed of the contents of the vacuum spook by putting them in the chest.

"Flim Flam, you saved the day!" Daphne congratulated the boy.

Cheers were followed by Boris' remorse and apology before Vincent and the gang.

"How can I ever make it up to you for all the trouble I caused?" his asked, speech accompanied by gesticulations.

"I runno," Scooby who was sitting beside him said.

"And why am I talking to a dog?" he questioned himself in a surprised tone as if he had not done more insane acts that night.

Shaggy later wondered how the host managed to get away with only an apology. But it happened; a mixed result of his celebrity status and an absence of laws that regulated supernatural activity.

Time continued its flow, and the seasons changed as it did. The Winter Solstice had passed along with the remnants of the year's coldest period.

Spring made a return several days before, but it still needed time to redecorate the surroundings. The trees stood devoid of leaves, and the barren ground was still to lay out its green carpet.

The pair walked out of the hotel, the interview with a visiting performer complete. In an uncommon reverse of traditional seating, Shaggy took the place behind the steering wheel.

"Want to go have lunch?" he asked, turning to his partner.

"Sure, why not," Daphne nodded as she put the audio recorder away.

There were only two of them—the dogs stayed at home in order to help Flim Flam keep an eye on the chest. That had been the tendency since the day the accursed container was opened. Shaggy was amazed at how they had been able to achieve this—fitting ghost-chasing around their work. He was actually happy, in a way, at having this opportunity of spending time only in her company.

He parked the van near the café, they only had to make several dozen steps and they were inside. The weather outside was not of the most pleasing sort, but the joint's interior gave a feel of coziness. Warm lights brightened the place. The chairs and brown polished wooden tables looked so elegant that they could have been the designer's specialty. The distant wall was decorated by a mosaic of a thematic that fitted the room. It depicted the surface of a table, nearly identical to those in the café. Upon it, fruit of different kinds, oranges and grapes, pomegranates and papaya, lay spread, their forms mere plaster but not without appeal.

He picked up a menu, studying it as if it was an accountant's report. He never denied that it was also an entertaining thing. Had he been asked why, he would probably have not found an answer, but fun took different shapes, and that was a point in his defense. He also admired the portrayals of several of the orders on the culinary brochure's pages as if those were real art. It took them a bit to decide on their choices. The couple made orders and went to one of the tables by the wall.

The redhead was first to sit down; he did the same seconds later. They were sitting by one side, their backs to the wall; most of the large room was open to them. The café could not be considered half-empty—it was almost empty, except for several other people. But change still had a chance; standard lunchtime had not yet arrived, and soon suit-clad employees on their breaks would start gathering here from nearby offices.

He gave Daphne a look. He noticed that her lips curved into a smile as beautiful as all her features.

"What's the smile about?" he asked her tenderly, playfully.

"I'm waiting," she answered.

"I'm waiting for my order too," he chuckled, "but unfortunately, my stomach doesn't allow me to smile during waiting time," he exposed her to one of his jokes.

Daphne raised an eyebrow that made her grin even more explicit but just as adorable.

"I am not talking about lunch."

Shaggy thought that the lights in the room went off for a moment before returning with a sharp flash that stings the eyes.

"Do you mean you're…" he needed a clear answer, metaphors unacceptable.

"Yes, I am," she cut off his sentence, aware of what he was about to ask.

Perhaps there really was a problem with power supply in the café since a repeat of the incident took place. But, if that was the case, then why was he the only one to notice? And how did the blackout block daylight from coming through the glass windows?

Another question was begging to be answered. Why was that blackout the only thing on his mind? And no matter how much he tried, he found himself incapable of concentrating on anything else as if the café was not the only thing that went through a blackout.

"Earth to Shaggy," a distant transmission brought him out of this stasis.

Mechanically, Shaggy drew a hand and put it on her stomach.

"For how long?" he asked, still not fully in his senses.

"Two months," she replied.

There were another several moments of silence.

"You still haven't gotten over it?" Daphne satirized him.

"Sorta. Such big info isn't churned in an instant."

"So any comments?" she placed her hand on top of his.

"Great news, what else…" he smiled in response.

Few surprises he had gone through had a chance against this one. Moreover, it was probably the only positive one since the incident in the Himalayas. The news remained on the headlines of his mind right into the next day.

They stood gathered in the foyer around the crystal ball in through which, like an anchor in front of a camera, Vincent van Ghoul was giving a report.

"Ever since Zimbulu's capture, the remaining two ghosts seem to have decided to lurk for a while," the sorcerer said, "but I believe I have gotten on trail of one of them."

"Expect more information in the upcoming days," with that the projection faded away.

The news got different perceptions. Scrappy was happy at an opportunity of splatting another villain, Scooby was being his traditionally panicking self, Flim Flam accepted it with realism, and Shaggy, as always, had numerous reservations about it.

"Are you sure it would be wise for you to take part in the upcoming case?" he asked Daphne when they were alone in their room.

The others had not been informed yet; Daphne wanted to wait a bit more before revealing it to the rest.

"I don't see why not," she replied as she put the comb back next to the mirror.

"You sure you don't see?" he remarked.

"You mean my condition?" she turned towards him, "it's only been two months."

"But still it is a major factor…"

"It's an early stage," she interrupted him, "the side effects are minimum."

Still he had doubts.

"But it's dangerous," concerned for her well-being, he gave a reminder.

"All of our missions have been dangerous. Besides, what else should I do? Sit at home and eat pickles while watching TV?"

She just had to bring food into the equation…

"Sounds like a good idea to me," Shaggy commented, chuckling.

"And remind me the obstacle that prevented Zomba and Demondo from coming to this house?" she spoke with a hint.

She had a point. There was no obstacle; both ghouls had just dropped in on them.

"Well, you could go stay with your family at Blake Manor for the time being," he shared the most recent idea that came to her mind.

Daphne rolled her eyes.

"I am flattered by your concern, but don't you think your offers are somewhat off?" her voice took a slightly higher pitch.

"Nope," he responded with the most simplistic answer in the easiest tone.

"I already told you that there is nothing to worry about on this stage. Moreover, the faster we catch the remaining two ghosts, the safer the world will be for our baby. We'll think about what to do in this case if the job takes longer."

Her dedication to ghost-hunting was admirable but not necessarily wise.

"But we don't know anything about them. What if they carry some paranormal disease…what if you get contaminated?" concern had a habit of raising the least explored issues.

"Now you are being ridiculous," Daphne shook her head as she put a palm to her temple. It was evident she was becoming annoyed by his endless theories.

"No, I'm not," he gave a word that turned into a pocking one.

"Yes, you are," it felt almost like a tit-for-tat game.

"Oh, dear."

"What?"

"Seems like somebody is being a cranky mommy…" he gave his analysis of the situation in his ace manner.

"It's not nice to ridicule pregnant women," she said with a tutor-like tone, definitely not lightened up by the joke.

"I'm not…"

"I have an idea!" she suddenly proclaimed, "How about you start being overprotective when it's necessary?"

The sarcastic addition hinted that that she would not retreat from her position.


	9. Chapter 9

PART 9: Last of the Thirteen

The sound of a step echoed across the large room. It was an omen of danger. It was followed by several more, and with each of them, Shaggy's heart was swelling more and more, making him think that very soon it would burst like a balloon. As always, fear had found its way to him.

The gang had split up while fleeing their newest nemesis. The young man ended up in a drawer, a temporary refuge, for the problem still needed to be resolved. As if fate itself required it, his two main companions in split-ups were with him once again. Scooby was shaking as if he had a fever, but luckily for them his tremble was not enough to rock their hideout. The other one definitely needed attention.

"I say we launch a sneak attack and splat him!" Scrappy proposed a strategy, not the most unique of his plans.

Shaggy put his hand on the muzzle of the pooch. There were so many things wrong with that approach; the fact that the Chest of Demons was with Flim Flam and not with them was one of those.

"Do you want to become a prune?" he whispered his reservations into the dog's ear.

The type of monstrosity they were dealing with was also important. They had come across vampires during the hunt for the ghosts, but this one had a slight difference. He was an energetic vampire, literally; unlike most of his nocturnal kin, he feasted on life energies, not blood. Luckily— and the word could only be used to a degree, — for the trio and the ghoul's victims the effects were not fatal, though the change in mood and appearance were beyond evident: the most active party girl would lose her liveliness and the most fresh features would wither like a leaf in fall.

"You cannot run away from me!" they heard a sharp loud voice, as though it was aimed at all of the intruders in the building, "I know the whole of this building, right to the missing pieces on the stairway!"

He heard several more steps before he got an impression that the villain was near their location. That was it. Pessimism came with the ghoul. He could already imagine the clawed hand reaching out to him and the gaze similar to that of a man who had finally found a glass of water after being driven nutty by long thirst.

But he still acknowledged a redeeming side: the closer the vampire was to them, the safer Daphne, and, hence the baby, were.

He heard a chuckle: more of a hiss than a laugh.

"I can sense life energies," the ghoul continued, "What a delicious irony. Those who wanted to lock me back into the Chest of Demons got caught in an ordinary chest."

Last statement gave away a lot. Then the lid was pulled open from the outer side. There was no time to prepare for the unexpected…for the ghoul…

With a panicking yelp, Scooby burst out of the drawer, an exit rivaled only by the thirteen ghosts'. Though it was not his intention, the canine managed to knock the vampire off his feet, and give them all an opportunity to escape. Shaggy followed.

"Didn't expect a sneak attack from my ingenious Uncle Scooby, did you?" Scrappy taunted their rival as he jumped out of the drawer and put up his fists, "Come on, put'em up! That was only a piece of what you're about to get!"

However, the young dog was not able to make it to the challenge; the duo picked up and took him with them as they fled from the room.

"I'll reduce you to mere husks!" they heard him shout of warning behind their backs.

They were running down the large hall lightened by burning candles; the curious question of where he got the supply from was not on their minds that moments.

Shaggy felt a small shape swoop over them, the flap of its wings leaving a tiny air vibration. A bat landed in front of them and immediately went through a transformation. It took a human-like form, but the look was still awkward. Nineteenth-century commoner clothes aside, the vampire could be distinguished by his face, so revealing the rat-like features were.

"Time to feast," his hiss spread across the hall.

That was a strong indicator of what was about to come.

"Sure it is!" sounded an infantile voice from behind the creature's back.

The vampire turned around to see Flim Flam emerge from the corner, dragging a small table behind him.

"So why not dine at a respectable joint?" he said as he picked the stool that stood out-of-context by the wall and placed it next to the table.

"What?" the ghoul did not hide his surprise and confusion.

"Yep, you heard it! Welcome to Flim Flam Bistro!" the kid grabbed the spook by the sleeve and led him to the table.

Shaggy wondered if they needed to play along or did their teammate have it covered.

"Here's the menu," Flim Flam passed the brochure to the now seated vampire. His customer looked aimlessly at it.

"Still can't find what you're looking for? Then how about our breakfast special?" he made a suggestion.

"Breakfast?"

"You heard it right, sucker!" the kid jumped to the big window opposite to the table hidden by a thick brown curtain.

"Enjoy your meal!" he added as he ripped down the drape with a rough pull.

The brighter tones that entered the place indicated that sunrise began, and the ghoul, due to the position of his seat, had an opportunity to see the view. But sunlight was a weakness to all vampires. He hesitated, struck by the change. Trying to escape his bane, he transformed into a bat, but the level of exposure he got was already higher than tolerable. The small winged form fell on the table, the continuing unpleasant experience of feeling the lively sunrays growing stronger. He found relief from it only in the Chest several minutes later.

To Shaggy, that vampire became the least memorable of the thirteen ghosts. They never found out his name: never was it mentioned by Vincent, and the ghoul did not reveal it. The other denizens of the cursed container each had their own character; this one did not—only an empty shell after more life energies to consume. He had no plans, and merely continued to vanquish his thirst, using an abandoned hotel as a hideout. His mode of operations, as primitive as it could get, allowed them to track him down.

Another three weeks had passed since the capture of the twelfth ghoul. The month of March was drawing to conclusion, and spring was already at its full. However, their work was not necessarily an outdoor one.

The pair entered the lecture hall partially filled with visitors; they were on-campus at one of the prestigious universities. A conference was about to begin, a convention that had drawn the main academics in the field of archaeology from across the country, presentations of the most recent discoveries being part of the program. Daphne's objective was to later write an article about it. Shaggy wondered why she still took up different types, rather than concentrating on some.

Their seats were at the end of the line in the central part of the audience rows. The exited discussions between the seated undergraduate and doctoral students, research fellows and academics ceased immediately as the head of the department announced the start of the conference. A lecture followed, given by a visiting professor, which made Shaggy wonder again why his partner had decided to take the assignment. 'Innovation in Applied Methodics of Landscape Archaeology': that was the topic of the first feature. The flow of expressions with unfamiliar terminology that went through his ears subdued his mind in a matter of several minutes.

His eyelids fell heavily, helping him travel to the realm of sleep.

—

There was a park, green and bright. Trees stood tall, their crowns matching in color with the grass, fountains sprouted water in a friendly manner; gardenbeds with flowers of several colors of the rainbow acted as additional decoration by the sides of footpaths.

Then he saw her.

It was Daphne, the same but different in a way. Strangely, it was her younger version; the Daphne Blake of her late teens and early twenties. Her head was crowned by a pink headband, the distinguishing tiara she stopped wearing several years before. The hair style too was from back then. The green scarf, the short purple dress, the pink nylons—all had made a return.

Was that a memory? But if it really was a memory, then why was she pulling a baby carriage? A time anomaly? He really needed an explanation of this awkward phenomenon.

She passed by near the point where he stood without giving him a word, not even taking notice of him, as if he was not there. He remained motionless, struck by the gripping feel of unease.

He shouted out her name, but she did not turn around. He watched her move further and further down the footpath amidst the park's idyllic scenery.

He had to admit that the situation was becoming scary. He made a run for it with the intention of reaching her, looking directly at her, hearing a single statement…

The run almost felt like an on-spot feet exercise; no matter how fast he tried, he was incapable of reaching Daphne and the carriage.

He tripped and fell…

—

His eyes shot open; he was back in the lecture hall. Moving his head to the side, he saw the redhead where she was supposed to be, sitting next to him. Shaggy felt relief.

At the same time, the academic was drawing his lecture to a conclusion. After a break of several minutes another professor ascended the stand. Members of staff brought a glass case, placing it on the table on the stage. The form of the item it hinted it was some sort of a parchment.

The speaker called it the 'Ladakh Scrolls' in his lecture as he described how it was found during an excavation in India less than six months before.

"Unbelievably, the scrolls were found in relatively good condition; very rare for such items," he ended the analysis and began describing their background, "Though mentioned in Sanskrit, Pali, and classical Chinese sources, the Ladakh Scrolls had been considered a mere myth by some of the authors and contemporary mainstream academia…"

For some reason, Shaggy felt a chill.

"The question of the parchment's purpose is still a subject of debate. According to one theory, it was used by…"

The lecturer stopped speaking when a radiance of the color of ice appeared on the stage. Moments later, another figure joined the academic, but what weird university the newcomer represented was a mystery. His long robe, grey and violet, reached knee level. His choice of footwear was unusual: leggings of yellow metal, like those of armor suits, protected the part of his feet left open by the robe. To compliment them, gauntlets of similar nature hid his arms straight to the elbow. The scarlet cloak on his back was so old it resembled a rag. The guest's features could not be seen— the robe's hood covered his head, and a ceremonial mask, depicting the muzzle of an oriental serpent in a mixture of red and green, hid his face.

The auditorium froze in disbelief from the scene before them. The newcomer made his move, elegant but predatory like the sting of a scorpion. Jumping to the case as if metal had no weight, he brought a gauntleted fist down on it, shattering the glass.

"Mine!" he proclaimed as he pulled out the scroll, miraculously intact from glass cuts.

"Remember what the sages said," turning around, he addressed the auditorium in a deep throaty voice, "Remember what comes after bloom!" he stretched his hands like a bird its wings.

He disappeared in the same cold aura.

Naturally, the conference was put on hold by the incident. The audience began to dissolve, and the police was summoned. It seemed like a beginning of a new mystery…

Daphne, followed by Shaggy, made her way to the academic under whose nose the parchment had been snatched. The lecturer was ready to speak.

"This is one of the biggest discoveries in recent archaeology. Whoever has it can sell this artifact to a collector for big money," he raised his main fear as he described the significance of the find.

"Do you have any idea who might have done this?" Daphne asked.

"Unfortunately, I don't."

"What if that ghost is real?" Shaggy hinted on his interpretation.

"You've probably been watching that choreographed farce hosted by Boris Kreepoff too much, my friend," the professor disagreed, "There is no such thing as ghosts."

"_Want to bet a cheeseburger on it?"_ Shaggy preferred to keep it in his mind.

Talking to the academic produced no positive result.

"Don't tell me we'll have to split up and look for clues?" Shaggy asked the redhead as they exited the lecture hall. He was ready to carry her off-campus against her will if she gave the answer he did not wish.

"Not this time," she replied, "We're in another town with Scooby and the others miles away. Somebody else will have to solve this case."

To the best of his memory, that was the first case that they left unsolved.

On the morning of the second day after the incident, he sat in the kitchen having finished his breakfast, watching the volunteering Daphne wash dishes. When everything was done, they exited the kitchen only to stand witness to an emerging scandal in the foyer.

"Flim Flam! I have told you several times that the crystal ball should only be used for contacting me!" they did not see Vincent's image clearly, but that angered voice aimed at the kid standing before the contraction compensated in loudness.

"Oh c'mon, Vince," the kid, as always, tried to arrange a deal.

"Vincent!" as though suddenly possessed, Daphne bolted to the crystal ball.

"Yes, Daphne?"

"Riddle me this: what comes after bloom?" she asked.

"Why that's an easy question," he chuckled slightly, "Decay. At least that's what the sages said."

Shaggy raised an eyebrow at the familiarity of the statement.

"And who wears a grim-looking outfit and a ceremonial mask?" Daphne asked.

"In context of your previous question, I would say…an ancient Himalayan dark sorcerer."

"So that's what it was," Shaggy stressed out the sentence, dissatisfied with the answer.

"There haven't been any in several centuries…aside from one," Vincent's voice went deeper which meant bad news, "Where did you see him?"

Daphne described the encounter.

"This is horrible!" Vincent gave an assessment, "The full name of the object you saw is the Ladakh Scroll of Undeath. Its purpose was to serve as an aide in complex dark rituals performed by ancient Tibetan necromancers. You saw one of them, Tsaen Gyar, a sorcerer-king of Ancient Tibet who later returned to the mortal plane thanks to his powers. He is also one of the thirteen ghosts. He's been searching for the scrolls, considered lost in time. Many years ago, he came to my castle, mistakenly believing I had possession of them. But that's a different story."

"But what does he want with them?" Flim Flam asked.

"The way one handles the scroll depends on expertise, and his is great. According to my sources, his plan is to use them in a place called The Catacombs in local folklore, a shrine where the most powerful mystics of ancient Tibet were buried. He wants to reanimate those mystics in order to drain their powers while they are under his control. Then, with his powers increased, he will be strong enough to conduct his darkest necromantic experiments…"

Shaggy gulped.

"But luckily and unluckily for us, there are two factors. The ritual I mentioned can only be performed on a specific day of a thirteenth-month lunar year according to an ancient calendar. Such happens once in three years. Unfortunately…it's just several days from now," Vincent's last statement was truly not a thing to be glad of.

As the mage was explaining what they had to do, Shaggy already wondered if there was going to be a repeat…

And it happened; same thing, same surrounding…

"Don't tell me we're on it again?" Daphne said.

"No, because you just did," Shaggy replied, smiling.

"I told you last time that this is still an early stage."

"But it's been almost a month since then."

"And it doesn't change medical facts. Moreover, it's the final ghost we have to deal with."

"That's exactly my point!" he protested, "Pregnant women make appointments with good doctors, not evil necromancers!" the last part came out louder, "Were you listening to what Vince was telling about that ghost? Especially the part about dark experiments and rituals? That guy probably never had a sane thought throughout his existence!"

"What if we fail to stop him and he decides to experiment on you?" different scenarios and images filled his mind, none comforting.

"Would anything even matter if he wins?" she crossed her hands at chest level.

"You're not going," Shaggy concluded.

"What?" she said, raising an eyebrow.

"Yep, you heard me right," he nodded his head.

"Are you insinuating that I have no importance to the team?"

"_Oh, my. She's in cranky mode again_," he thought, assessing her reaction, "No, I'm not…"

"I'm going no matter whether you like it or not!" she cut him off, "You'll have to lock me in the house and take all the keys in order for it to be otherwise!"

Shaggy hummed as he rubbed his chin and rolled his eyes…

"Shaggy!" Daphne proclaimed, stunned by his reaction, "You can't be serious! You can't…"

He did not pay attention to the end of her statement. No matter how worthwhile that idea was in an ends-justify-the-means situation, he understood the redhead would have her way.

What was destined to happen did, — the day when they had a showdown with the last of the Thirteen…

The gang walked the mountainous footpaths. The scenery was unique. The majestic peaks of the Himalayas floated in the distance by all sides, the snowy heads surrounded by thick mist that made them even more baffling and mystical. The air might have been fresh but it was heavy for those who lived in the lowlands and were not familiar with its flavor. The wind was cold, and even the thick jacket on Shaggy's shoulders could barely keep him from shivering.

They followed the rarely used route, led by their guide, Flim Flam, who paradoxically knew the way to the landmark from his past experiences in the area. He had said he once planned to use the catacombs as a storage for his trademark juice before dumping the idea for reasons of hygiene.

"There it is!" the kid pointed down past the route's cliffy edge. There, in tolerable distance, Shaggy could see a cave in the rocky surface, no doubt the entrance into the catacombs.

"Finally," Daphne breathed out.

"Why look Weerd, it's Scooby Doo and his friends!" they heard a voice, the tone as farcical as in a game of ridicule.

They saw the two ghosts standing on a higher mountainous platform nearby as they looked above.

"Why yes, Bogel, we haven't seen them for a while?" the taller ghost said, playing along.

"You're here as well?" Scrappy protested.

"Of course we are! Why shouldn't we? After all, who do you think tipped Tsaen Gyar on that conference?" Weerd mocked, "And the boss ordered us to keep you occupied while he's performing that spell of his!"

"And how are you planning to do that?" Scrappy said.

"Using this!" Weerd proclaimed, revealing what he held in his hand behind his back. It resembled a crystal ball but smaller, easily fitting in a palm.

Wild energies started streaming around it, hinting activation. Then the gang found themselves torn from the surface, caught in a whirlwind and raised to the ghosts' level.

"It's called the Sphere of Enraged Winds," the specter explained, "The boss gave it to us saying it's foolproof."

"Even if we're involved," Bogel added.

"It's a great toy, isn't it?" the ghost laughed, "And I'm sure you'll be great playmates."

It was the least fun game Shaggy could remember. Weerd was drawing different invisible forms in the air with the clenched orb, and obeying his gesticulations, the controllable storm hurled the gang around in similar outlines.

"Hey, Bogel! Watch the ride they're about to get," the ghost chuckled in perverted amusement.

"Oh c'mon, Weerd," he grabbed hold of the sphere, "Let me have my turn."

"Not now, idiot! You'll ruin everything!" he gripped his toy with both hands.

"The boss gave it to the two of us," the other spook protested, pulling the artifact towards himself.

Like children, the two quarreled, trying to rip the orb out of each other's clutches. They did not bother with the basics of safety, so when one of them slipped on the ice on the stony surface and ended up beyond the platform's edge, the other did too. They both rolled down the opposite slope. Their stupidity doomed another of their plans.

With that the magical whirlwind ceased, almost ending in disaster since the hovering gang had to take an unexpected fall. Luckily, Scooby's rubber duck raft that had become their unofficial talisman was with the dog. A drop turned into a ride down the slope. The death-defying shortcut brought them to the entrance of the cave.

"Like, is everybody alright?" Shaggy asked, rubbing his head dizzily.

He got a positive reply from everybody.

"Hey, we're at the entrance," Flim Flam said, "Let's go."

They entered the catacombs; inside the dark lair, they walked forward, and like wings of a labyrinth, a number of tunnel entrances kept springing by the sides, each leading down into the mountainous deeps.

"Are you sure you know the correct route?" Daphne asked the boy, seeing those alternate tunnels as more than holes in the wall.

"Sure do. That's the thing with such planning,—keep going straight. The others are there as a distraction," the kid explained, unconcerned.

His navigation was correct. They first saw a golden sparkle in the end of the tunnel. It continued to grow until they beheld the source. A giant chamber spread out before them. In Shaggy's imagination, it could have fitted their whole house in both diameter and height. The walls shone incrusted by golden leaf. Statues of deities, tall and imposing, stood by the walls, their locations making an arch, their silent gaze bound at the newcomers. The unmistakable shapes of sarcophagi were spotted by the walls.

The ghost was there as well. Kneeled, he stood in the hearth of a chamber, his back turned to them. The sound of a voice was echoing across the place, a gloomy whisper in an unknown language. He did not expect they would go that far; he was vulnerable.

Flim Flam pulled the vacuum spook and the Chest out of his backpack.

"Like how are you gonna turn it on, this place doesn't have a socket?" Shaggy whispered to the kid.

"It has an autonomous power supply," Flim Flam responded.

On the tips of their toes, they moved slightly closer. The boy turned the contraption on. They saw the kneeling shape get pulled inside.

"It's over!" the boy proclaimed in rejoice.

But the triumph was swift. A sound cut the air, and in a second the awkward apparatus got split in two, the front part falling on the floor with a bang. To their surprise, nothing flew out of the cracked mechanism.

"I can cast projections," sounded a slow voice.

They looked around and saw the grim figure step from behind a statue. Surrounded by his mysticism and dread, the necromancer rose above floor level and unhurriedly hovered to the chamber's center.

"Weren't you supposed to be performing a ritual?" Shaggy addressed him, acknowledging in disturbance that their foe had overturned the tables.

"If I order a group of laborers to build a palace by a certain date, they are allowed to take breaks as long as construction is completed by the deadline," their antagonist said just as slowly and menacingly as before.

"_I_ _assume he means that you can take a break even during a ritual_," the young man concluded.

"This ritual is of high importance to me, and I will allow nobody to spoil it, for by its end I will have the power to carve out my perfect kingdom," the necromancer continued.

"And who's gonna vote for you?" Scrappy barked.

"In the empire of the undead finding subjects is not a problem."

Shaggy felt ice in his chest.

"And what a day it would be if I get the Chest of Demons as well," the masked face turned to the Great Dane with the chest, "I knew you might try to interfere. The sages said: send fools in battle first…"

Then came the crown strike. Shaggy found himself grabbed and pulled backwards into the shadows simultaneously with Daphne and Flim Flam. Though neutralized, they had a chance to look their assailants in the faces…or what was left of them: the eyeless sockets, the decayed remnants of flesh on cheekbones, the exposed skulls. Some wore armor, others dark priestly robes, but they shared one thing in common—undeath.

"…and keep the elite lurking until there is need," the insidious statement was complete.

One of the ghouls hopped to Scooby, attempting to grab him by the collar, but he had underestimated his canine reflexes. The dog, the chest in his teeth, managed to slip past him, past the others. So did Scrappy.

"Run you two!" Flim Flam urged them as the Great Danes fled further into the tunnel with the Demon Chest.

"Hunt down those mutts!" the necromancer's angered voice echoed across the chamber.

Immediately, several of his minions turned around and followed the trace.


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note**: The fic is nearing its concluding chapters.

—

PART 10: Feast of the Chest

One of the ghouls made several steps forward, his walk solid for a semi-decomposed corpse.

"Master, we have confiscated this from the prisoners," he said referring to the round object he held with both hands, the crystal ball Vincent had given the gang.

The necromancer descended from his position in mid-air; kneeling down, the undead minion placed the artifact before his feet like an offering before retreating. No words were proclaimed as the undead sorcerer brought his armored boot down on the crystal ball, reducing it to numerous but useless pieces of glass.

"I would like to see how van Ghoul gets an account of the situation without it," the masked face turned to the three prisoners now bound next to the gold-plated wall.

"You two stand guard the captives," he addressed two of his armor-clad minions, receiving bows in reply, "The rest return to your posts and watch out for potential newcomers or the dogs."

With a group bow, the ghoulish servants departed and disappeared in the darkness of the tunnel.

"As for you," he approached his prisoners so close that he stood inches from them, "I will decide what to do with you later," he raised his hand and the scrolls materialized in the gauntleted palm, "I need to get back to my task."

He walked back towards the chamber's hearth, leaving the gang under the empty gaze of the two guards.

The necromancer's statements kept repeating in Shaggy's ears like the contents of an audiocassette. He remembered Vincent's words.

"_Like this is it, dark necromantic experiments…"_ the thought made him gulp.

He did not count the time, incapable for different reasons, as the trio remained the captives. His thoughts constantly returned to the two canines; they were somewhere in the catacombs, pursued by vile undead. We they still on the run? In hiding? Maybe they had already been captured by this time or worse…

Shaggy feared that any moment the terrifying squad would return, the Chest of Demons in their possession…and stained red…

This image felt as gripping as if a noose was tightened around his neck.

"_Like, why did we open the chest? I should have thought that moment. My fault, my fault…"_

The words of the incantation, leafy and whispery, were flying around the chamber; the only sound that broke the tomb's silence. Then a new sound reached out from the darkness of the tunnel. It sounded like a wail, long and melancholic. Through the specifics of the catacombs it felt as if a hundred ghosts howled simultaneously. Shaggy wondered if it was a sign of the necromancer putting the final stage of the ritual into motion.

The comparison was partially correct. He saw two ghosts fly into the chamber as though they were pulled by dark sorcery...

Carried by wild winds, they smacked against the necromancer who had his back to the entrance, knocking him off his feet. An object, sparkling amidst dark and golden surroundings, jumped from the scene of collision and rolled further into the chamber like an ordinary ball.

"The sages said…"the necromancer started speaking with his catchphrase, "If you bump into a fool, then it is a turn of fate, but if a fool bumps into you—it is a sign from above. What is the meaning of this, you imbeciles?" he said as he got back on his feet.

"Sorry, boss, but it seems the sphere you gave short-circuited after falling from a mountain with us," Bogel, one of the unexpected arrivals, said simplistically.

"What he means to say is…" Weerd showed him aside, "we were on our way here when we saw your servants chasing Scooby Doo and that other dog. We decided to aid them, so we used the power of the sphere again…and it appears to have short-circuited."

"And I must say it's quite a storm," Bogel added.

"I do not know the details of your encounter but I already regret giving you the sphere," The necromancer commented, shaking his head in irritation.

Then two more players entered the scene in a similar manner, with a similar outcome. The ghostly pair fell like dominoes when hit by the smaller shape; their chief was brought down by the other one. Scooby and Scrappy came back.

"Rexcuse me, Rister revil king," Scooby said and, acting as a gentleman, slightly brushed the villain's dark-violet robe with his paw.

"I will make a taxidermy out of you!" the necromancer said, standing up, unimpressed by the gesture.

But some unknown force hinted that it was not a good day for the ancient Tibetan king. Almost immediately, he was hit by another missile and ended up on the floor once more. Several of the ghosts had had opportunities to get their clutches on the Chest, but only this one managed to get it straight in the face.

"The sages said that if the stars send you warnings, stay as close to the ground as possible," Tsaen Gyar whispered, sprawled on the floor.

His gaze turned to the projectile that hit him which now lay on the chamber's floor.

"Grab the chest, you fools!" he ordered his two lackeys.

"On it, chief!" Weerd assured before the duo made a jump for it.

"No you don't!" Scrappy protested as he made his own move.

It was the most awkward mash-up anybody could have seen: two ghosts and small dog were rolling over the floor in a quarrel for the chest. Several swift movements and the trio were back on their feet, each pulling the chest into his own direction as if it was a doll and they had a disagreement on whose turn it was to play.

"Mine!" Weerd declared.

"No, mine!" the dog replied.

"No, the chest is mine!" Bogel said as he tried making a stronger pull.

"Idiot! We're on the same side!" Weerd snapped.

Carefully, bit by bit, the necromancer rose up.

"No rore rorm?" Scooby, who remained nearby wishing neither a repeat of his earlier flight nor getting a hit with anything heavy, asked him naively.

"I believe its time has worn out," the ghost explained.

"Rhat a relief," the dog sighed.

He turned to Scrappy, ready to get to his side.

"Seems like I will have to take another pause," the Great Dane heard the cold voice behind his back.

He turned around to see the necromancer, scroll in hand, rise in the air, his scarlet cloak flapping menacingly.

"The ghosts can only be recaptured by those who set them free," he repeated the familiar foresight. A ghostly flame flared up in his gauntleted palm.

"Do you know what this means?" he asked with a malevolent hint.

"Rayks!" Scooby yelped and bolted towards the exit.

But his nemesis was quicker; the Great Dane found his path blocked by the levitating wraith.

"I do not care if that malfunction had wiped out my guard. I will deal with you without the aid of servants and affiliates," he threw his arm forward.

Scooby jumped aside a flashing moment before a lightning-like bolt hit the ground he stood on.

With another panicking cry, the dog fled into the opposite direction, towards the chamber's farthest corner, followed by the specter.

"You are merely making yourself an easy prey," the necromancer, though on his trail, kept his distance, not taking his adversary's efforts seriously.

The Great Dane was soon cornered; his back against the wall, he shook in fear, facing the necromancer. He avoided another bolt by dashing to the side, the only direction open to him. He did not assess his actions, and guided by alarm alone, aimed at the object that lay beside the nearest sarcophagi.

He picked the sphere up and barked at his opponent in a canine warning. The only result he achieved was mocking laughter.

"What are you intending? Use the sphere's power against me?" the wraith addressed him, "It is damaged! Moreover, you do not even know how it works!" he readied for a final strike.

Scooby's bark was completely replaced by a desperate squeal.

"Rabra Kadabra?" he begged as he rubbed the object.

The work of damaged appliances is unpredictable, magical items no exception. The orb exploded in the dog's paws. The elemental power was freed, and hurled the Great Dane into the air as one of its first acts. His pursuer too found himself captured in the whirlwind. The magical storm was circling them in the air above that part of the tomb.

"Row ro you rop ris ring?" Scooby yelled.

"We bear it until it calms down by its own will," the necromancer explained, mid-flight.

Unlike his uncle, Scrappy Doo did not share a common interest with his adversaries. The chest escaped his grasp, a result of the combined efforts of the two ghosts. He felt angry, he felt annoyed…

"Come on, pooch!" Weerd laughed, "Try harder! We know you can."

The duo was floating in the air ten feet above floor level, the lean ghost holding the chest by the handle. It was like a twisted game. The young Great Dane was supposed to grab hold of the container as if it was a stick or a chewy toy.

He jumped again but such a height was unachievable to him small form.

"Hey, that's not fair!" Scrappy said.

"You're right, it's not," Bogel replied.

"But that's what makes it so fun!" Weerd's remark burst the pair into laughter.

Their fun was interrupted by the unexpected calamity. The wild winds caught them, hurling both towards the epicenter, a fate the two would have probably evaded had they remained on the ground. Taken unaware, Weerd lost his grip on the chest, and the container went on a different way, falling to the ground.

"You fools cannot even keep hold of the Chest! Items of such importance should be held with a tiger's clench!" Tsaen Gyar raged getting tossed in the same whirlwind with them and Scooby, "What sway subdued my common sense and made me join forces with you?"

"At a boy, Uncle Scooby!" Scrappy cheered, his paws now on the chest, "Keep splatting those ghosts until they surrender!"

"Row?" the dog's shout implied that he saw the situation very differently.

Amidst the raging air currents, Scrappy, barely moving on his two, dragged the chest closer to the storm's epicenter. He opened the lid. The aura of the Demon Chest proved stronger than any concurrent sorcery.

There seemed only one direction for the wraith. Managing to grab the ghostly duo, the necromancer somehow hurled the two to the chest's maw, attempting to seal it in a final desperate move. The chest consumed Bogel and Weerd, but that sacrifice was not a pleasing one; it still waited for its lost denizen…the necromancer plunged into the chest's realm.

The lid closed by itself, and for a moment green flames blazed in the bas-relief's empty sockets before going out just as suddenly.

The storm ceased and Scooby fell down, luckily landing on his paws. The two undead guards Tsaen Gyar assigned to watch his captives and remained on duty all that time fell to the ground as lifeless corpses without their master's sway.

The gang made an account of those events when they came to Vincent's castle later that day.

"First of all, I would like to thank you for a job well done," the sorcerer congratulated them, standing up from his chair. They were in one of the castle's sitting rooms.

"And what about the chest?" Scrappy asked, pointing at the chest that lay on the carpet beside them.

"Just leave it with me. I will return it back to the old temple later on," Vincent instructed, "Hopefully, extra precautions will ensure that the chest will not be opened a _second time_," he gave Shaggy and Scooby a look of a strict teacher, "By the way, what are you holding in your hand?" he asked the young man.

"You mean this?" Shaggy brought his hand forward, "It's the scroll the ghost stole and was using in the ritual. He lost it when he was trying to save himself."

"We can now return it back to the university collection," the redhead added.

"May I have it for a moment?" Vincent asked.

"Sure," Shaggy said as he passed the parchment to the mystic.

The sorcerer walked to the fireplace and dumped the scroll into the flames as if it was used paper to the couple's dismay.

"I told you I only wanted it for a moment," van Ghoul chuckled, "but on a serious note, let it be lost forever to the evil minds that might want to use it."

"Wait, I think we're missing someone," Vincent studied his visitors, "Where did Flim Flam go off to?"

"I'm here, Vince," they heard the boy's voice before he entered through the door, carrying a suitcase, "just went back to the plane to get my stuff."

"Your stuff?" Daphne asked.

"Correct. I transferred it to the plane whilst were readying for the last mission."

"You mean you're leaving?" Scrappy asked.

"Yes. It was great being with you, guys. But now that the ghosts are captured, I believe I should go solo," he explained

Everybody remained stunned, so used they had become to him.

"Yep, I need to resume my business, go to new places, build my client base, and stuff like that!" he spoke as confidently as always.

"But where will you be staying?" Daphne asked.

"Where? Right here!"

"What?" Vincent proclaimed, surprised, "I did not agree to this!"

"I'll stay in your best guestroom, Vince," the kid said.

"Very well," the sorcerer, understanding the uselessness of arguing with the boy, reluctantly agreed, "but don't expect it to be a long stay!"

They all laughed at the scene. In those moments Vincent van Ghoul once again made use of his poetic skills, and came up with his newest four-liner, the panegyric he cited aloud:

"_The Thirteen Ghosts did not avoid_

_Their fated leap into the void._

_Their fall concludes the tale too_

_About the Demon Chest and Scooby Doo."_


	11. Chapter 11

PART 11: Aftermath

Everything ended as suddenly as it had begun. They had not seen Vincent van Ghoul or Flim Flam from that day; there was no more Chest to guard either. It almost felt that the whole adventure that had taken over a year never happened. The ghosts, the warlock, the juvenile con artist—all had disappeared out of their lives, leaving no reminders. The situation could be compared to a clock that was reset to an earlier time. Once again there were four of them. Just like before…but they expected an addition in about half a year.

On the ninth day after the events in the Himalayas, they were on their way to the editor's office. It was again time for review and plan discussion. The newsletter's headquarters was having a busy Monday. They walked past the desks behind which journalists and administration assistants were consumed by their chores.

The pair made their way to the familiar door. A sign hung on it, revealing the den of the big man: 'Editor's Office".

Daphne made a knock.

"Please come in," they heard a voice from the other side.

They did as asked and found the editor at his usual spot: by the desk. Their entry did not yet distract him from his work; pen in hand, he was going through the manuscript sheets before him. Several filled folders lay on the writing table by his right side, an implication of the amount of work he had to do. He turned to them several seconds later. He was a man in his early fifties, and spots of grey were already visible amidst his dark hair and thick mustache.

"Hello, you two!" he greeted them, putting the pen aside and placing his hands on the desk.

"Take a seat, Daphne," he said.

Daphne sat on the chair in front of the desk.

"Why don't you grab that stool, Norville."

"Sure thing, boss," Shaggy said, and taking the stool, place it next to Daphne's as he plunged into it.

"One second. Let me find the needed papers," he said as he began to search the inside of his table.

"There they are!" he proclaimed, now holding them in his hand.

The editor spoke first and passed them to Daphne for a look. The two soon began to talk. Shaggy did not pay attention; only a personal assistant, he was not obliged to be present at this routine, he tagged along with only the intention of looking after Daphne.

Once in a while, he would throw his gaze around: at the desk, at the shelves by the wall, at the structures visible from the window.

"I say, Daphne, you don't seem even half energetic and talkative as you usually are," the editor commented on the way the discussion was going.

"Sorry, but I had a case of nausea this morning and it returned soon after I sat down," the redhead complained.

"Would you like some water?"

"No, I'll be alright."

"Well, you know, this discussion is more like a formality and since there's nothing major in it, you can go home and rest," being a gentleman, the editor called the meeting to an end.

Shaggy drove the van back to their house. Having parked the vehicle by the garage door, he was the first one to exit it. Immediately, he found himself in the domain of the pleasant April weather, both sun and frail wind soothing his skin. But even a sunny day could make a person get a chill...

The first feeling of coldness arose when Daphne got out of the van. She did not use the other car door, but crawled out from the driver's side.

She made a couple of steps, as weak as the first steps of a child. He looked her in the eyes, and felt the same fear he went through during their adventures strike him in the back of the head. Daphne's features were pale, keeping her mouth wide open, she made slow but heavy breath. Her gaze, dull and mysterious, was hard to decipher.

"Daphne?" he said.

"Shaggy," she said, her eyes not concentrating on him as if her thoughts were flying elsewhere, "I feel terrible," she breathed out.

"Where is the pain coming from," he asked in disarray.

"Everywhere," she panted and dropped her head.

The young man was as scattered as she was in those moments. He wrapped his hand around her shoulders just to make sure she would not fall. He picked her up bridal style and carried her to the door, he let her back on her feet only when he needed to open the door.

Scooby met them in the foyer; the canine's look turned to one of puzzlement when he saw his friend pick up the redhead clutched to him and carry her to the living room. A fateful pet, the Great Dane followed.

Shaggy placed her on the sofa. He saw tears trail down his partner's beautiful features, and that was another reason for alarm. Like any other human, Daphne had experienced colds and migraines, but he could not remember any past malady burst her into tears.

"Do you want me to call a doctor?" he did not care what reply she would give, he already made the decision.

Daphne feebly shook her head in agreement.

"Keep an eye on her, Scoob," he addressed his four-pawed pal.

"Rokay."

He made his way to the phone, dialed the number, and explained the situation and symptoms. With the call over, he went back to the living room. Daphne leaning against the sofa's back, Daphne sat with closed eyes, her hand on the head of the Great Dane, patting him unevenly.

"You'll be alright," he said, trying to reassure himself as much as her and planted a kiss on her forehead.

The ambulance arrived fairly quickly, although Daphne had lost consciousness by that time.

He did not notice as time passed and could not tell how long he remained in the waiting area. Worrying, he could not keep his thoughts together—they flew into different directions like birds. They were everywhere, in present and past.

One of the doctors finally entered the room, his white coat almost melding with the walls of the same color.

"Mr. Rogers?" he medic read out his name from the sheet.

"Yes, Doctor," the addressee stood up.

"I am here to give you an update on Miss Blake's condition."

"Is she alright?" he asked, unable to wait another second.

"She will be," the medic said and broke his statement in two with a pause, "she had a miscarriage."

The doctor gave the young man an extra several seconds to churn his statements.

"There was quite a lot of bleeding, but she will recover. This incident will not lead to complications that can affect her health."

Everything in Shaggy's eyes gained a slight green tint. Partially, he was emotionally ready for such news. He formulated several theories while he was sitting, not assessing the true plausibility of each one. It was one of them.

"But what could have caused it? She seemed fine," the question slipped out in a whisper.

"There are different factors that can lead to a miscarriage. Moreover, pregnancy can cease on its own on an early stage even with no apparent reason."

The doctor explained relevant anatomic theses and statistics.

"But we are certain that this miscarriage will not affect Miss Blake's capability of bearing children in the future," the medic finished with a brighter notion.

The following day Daphne was deemed ready for check-out from the hospital, though it was strongly recommended that stayed at home for the next several days. Shaggy was the one to pick her up.

The atmosphere in the van remained silent throughout the drive; Daphne was not in the mood for talking. As they waited for the green light, the young man threw a look at his companion. The redhead was sitting by his side, her palms resting on her knees. He noticed how tightly her lips were joined, a feature that radiated an extra share of sadness. She was staring forward into the distance, her gaze dull.

The doctor had mentioned and warned that what she had gone through often left affected women with emotional traumas. It seemed the same applied to Daphne. The young man shook his head slightly, feeling sorry for her.

Eventually, they reached their house.

"We're home," Shaggy said, unbuckling his seatbelt.

This time Daphne exited through the other car door. As gracefully as usual, she made her way to him. Shaggy shut the car door and wrapped his hand around her, trying to comfort her. Grateful for his gesture, Daphne placed her head against his shoulder and rubbed against it softly.

"Let's go inside," Shaggy said after standing with her that way for several moments.

Not letting go of her, he made his way inside the house.

"Why don't you go have some rest?" he recommended as he looked her into the eyes that in those moments did not reflect even a speck of energy.

"Ok, I will," she said feebly, unintentionally making his spirit sore even more.

She stepped onto the stairway.

"Do you need any help?" though her steps were confident, he still wanted to be certain

"No thanks, I can handle," was her second sentence since check-out.

He watched her go down the stairs…just in case.

Afterwards was his turn to remain speechless and motionless. He stood like that for a bit as a bolt of many thoughts and emotions speared him. He went into the living room and fell onto the sofa like a brick.

However, his solitude was quickly interrupted. He did not hear steps, and only a brown blur when he caught with a corner of his eye hinted company. It was Scooby. The Great Dane could rarely be seen unaccompanied, and Shaggy noticed, after turning towards him, that it was not the case as a smaller form appeared from behind him.

Some said pets could feel the problems of their owners, so it seemed they were right. Scooby sat down on the floor near him; Scrappy crawled onto the couch.

"Shaggy, will Daphne be alright?" the smaller dog asked, concerned.

Shaggy put his hand on the pooch's head and scratched him behind the ear.

"She will be, Scrappy," he said, "she just needs time to recuperate."

He leaned slightly and put his other hand on the big Great Dane.

"Only, guys, let's not mention any of these…events…in Daphne's presence," he said.

The other two agreed.

"Anyway, have you two eaten?" he asked, standing up gradually.

"Let's go, I'll give you something to eat," he said upon getting a negative reply.

He stumbled into the kitchen, followed by his two pets. Himself not in the mood, he gave them their food and only watched as they ate.

He soon separated from their company. He returned to his and Daphne's room in order to check up on the redhead.

She had indeed followed his suggestion—she lay in bed. Carefully walking to it, he stopped at the bedside. Daphne was sleeping, tugged under the cover that only revealed the purple nightgown on her shoulders. Her eyes were shut, and he could hear her soft breathing. She looked better asleep than she did around an hour before, and he had to be glad of this slightest improvement. She looked calm; dream temporary released her from stress.

He thought the room was a bit stuffy. He went to the window and put his hand on the handle, intending to let some fresh air in. He paused before opening it and turned his face to his sleeping partner. He was not knowledgeable in medical issues. What if she was in a weaker condition than she seemed? He did not want her to get pneumonia due to a possible blunder of his. His grasp of the handle ended.

He felt sorry for her but simultaneously he could not shake off criticism. He had warned her, he had tried to persuade her to stay at home. Perhaps if she had heeded his concerned advice, this misfortune would not have happened.

However, there was one item of defense that turned the tables within several seconds…Daphne did not start it all…Daphne was not the one who opened the Chest of Demons.

He did.

Daphne's naïve idealism played its fateful role, but she had acted as she thought was necessary. For the world. For them. For their baby.

The primordial fault was his.

The next several days passed similarly, as was expected. Daphne spent the time between resting and being in a depressed mood. It was evident she belonged to the type emotionally most affected by miscarriages. Whenever Shaggy threw his gaze at her, he could feel the deep sense of loss she was experiencing. He only hoped that this period would not linger for too long.

He once woke up in the middle of the night; it was a common routine—he needed a midnight snack. He was about to stand up and make his trip when his ear caught a sound, low and melancholic. It was immediately followed by a similar one, which, in turn, was succeeded by another. Those noises were unmistakable—those were sobs.

He sat up and looked into their direction. Daphne lay on her side of bed, her back turned to him. Even in the moonlight he could see her tremble slightly with each sob.

He put his hand on her shoulder and gently caressed it. She did not react differently, just sobbed again.

"Daphne, please look at me," he urged softly.

Daphne slowly rolled onto her back. Her gaze met his. Her eyes and tears sparkled like crystals in the shadows. Her flame-red hair had dyed brown by the dark.

"Shaggy…I…" she wept out as she did the unexpected and actually sat up.

He reached out and rubbed her cheek. He wanted her to calm down; everything else mattered little that moment.

He inched closer and, wrapping his other hand around her, tenderly brought her into his embrace.

"It will be alright, Daph," he planted a kiss on the top of her head.

Daphne buried her head in his chest, but he did not achieve his objective. Instead, she plainly broke into tears. The young man kept repeating his assurances, all the while trying to come up with something that would make her relax, while the T-shirt he had on was becoming damper from Daphne's streaming tears.

Shaggy tried everything soothing that came to his mind: he caressed her back, kissed her occasionally, made compliments on her looks and qualities, repeated earlier assurances…

It took quite a bit of time, but Daphne finally calmed down. He tugged her in and kept his attention on the redhead until she fell asleep. He zapped out shortly after. After all of this, he did not want a snack anymore that night.

Daphne got better after several more days. Shaggy felt the shards of her depression would still linger somewhere in her mind for quite some time, but he was glad she again became the familiar Daphne. She could smile; she was able to take up job assignments…

Nevertheless, it felt that each of them had made a step into different directions. Rips in their relationship began to appear after the incident with the Demon Chest. The couple joint excitement over Daphne's pregnancy had partially stitched them. Yet now the stitches were undone, and the redhead seemed even more distant. He was hoping it was merely a temporary side effect of her depression and would subject to change.

It was the last third of May, and they were going on another assignment. However, times were changing. The golden days had passed. Back then, the romantic feel sweetened everything, including mysteries. Yet now even an average assignment had a metallic taste. Daphne was once again behind the steering wheel, Shaggy sat on his side, having little else to do but venture back to the earlier days through his memories.

The Mystery Machine stopped in front of an average small town dwelling. It was a one-story house painted white. Flowers decorated the small front garden and the windows. Getting to the door was a matter of several seconds. The redhead rang the door bell; the door was opened almost immediately. The person they were supposed to interview stood at the entrance. Dressed in a housewife's attire, she was a decade over them in age, her long raven hair tied into a ponytail.

"Hello, you must be Daphne Blake," she said, welcoming them, "I'm Rebecca Grant," she first shook Daphne's hand and then his.

She invited them in and led the pair into the living room where she offered them to take a seat on the sofa whilst she accommodated on a leather chair by the opposite side of a plated coffee table.

"Now, Rebecca, you are an author known across the country for your works of historical fiction, but as with many other present-day writers, your readers know very little about you as a person. So would you like to make several statements about yourself for your reading audience?" the interview began with these statements.

"Of course," she said and shared the most important facts of your life.

"And what made you choose historical fiction as your primary genre?"

"A general interest."

"And are there any particular themes you like to explore?"

"I mainly write love stories set in different eras. However, a common subject that can be found in my books is the place of women in society and the challenges they face confronting the social realities of their times."

"_Chicks talking about chick things. That's going to be quite an interview_," Shaggy thought as the female author began describing an event that inspired one of her works.

In the mean time, he felt the heavy lunch he had on the way here gone well, and in a union with the novelist's narration, it made him unable to prevent his eyelids from falling.

An elbow kick brought him back to the interview. He instantly found a pair of orbs on him; another pair of eyes awaited him when he moved his head slightly. The first gaze, the novelist's, was unemotional, Daphne's, on the other hand, was blazing angrily.

"Sorry, my bad," he said with a semi-embarrassed smile.

Daphne gave him a final disapproving look and turned back to her co-talker.

"So, Rebecca, would you mind giving your readers a couple of words about your upcoming book?"

"The story takes place in provincial Italy during the final years of the Roman Empire," the author said, "the main heroine is looking forward to her wedding that is expected to take place later that year. Exited and overjoyed, she does not know that the Hun armies are already on the march and Attila's shadow will soon fall not only on her country but on her very world…"

After the end of the interview, the hostess accompanied them to the exit.

"Thank you for the interview, Ms Grant," Daphne said.

"You're welcome. Thank you for the interesting questions," she thanked her in return, "And a little suggestion…" she looked at Shaggy and grinned, "A cup of coffee helps stay awake."

"That was so unprofessional of you, Shaggy," Daphne scolded him as they approached the van.

"But, Daph, I couldn't help it, it was so boring…" Shaggy tried to defend himself, "I mean what she saying!" he quickly added as the redhead shot him a critical look.

"There's a thing called self-control, you know," she said.

"Oh c'mon, Daph," he took her hand into his.

"My cheeks went red after I found out through her hint," Daphne added, unaffected by his gesture.

He remembered that May as the chilliest in his life.

He thought he kept seeing something deep in Daphne's eyes while they were walking their dogs in the park the next Saturday. They returned home in the afternoon.

"We need to talk, Shaggy," she said when the dogs went out of their view.

"Sure, Daph," he said and followed her into the living room, pushed by curiosity.

He sat on the sofa next to her.

"Shaggy, I've been thinking…" she began, her gaze on the cushion rather than on his face, "I feel it's not working anymore."


	12. Chapter 12

PART 12: The Flute and the Laurel

At first he thought it was just his imagination. It felt so. A random expression went through one ear and left through another. That was it; it was the simplest of the illusions of the sound.

However, as he continued to look at Daphne he felt the coming of a new feeling. A chill ran down his spine as if the silence had brought the winter tempest. The redhead kept avoiding his gaze, choosing to keep her eyes on the side. He still noticed her lips locked tight in a frown. Imagination or not, he had to give those words at least the benefit of the doubt.

"Daphne, I think I might have heard you wrong," he said, carefully and as gently as he could, "did you just say 'it's not working anymore'?"

"Yes, I did," he said quietly.

He reached out his hand, and cupping her chin, gently made her look at him. Her eyes were shining, but it was not due to the beam of her beauty but from dampness of tears.

He blinked a number of times in order to evade a similar sparkle in his own eyes. He had to be strong; he had to seem strong.

Her confirmation was a give-away; he had to go through great lengths in order to find a different interpretation, but no matter how long he walked that destination remained beyond his sight.

"Is it because of the incident at the novelist's house?" he referred to the several days old situation when he fell asleep during Daphne's interview. He knew the question was nonsensical, but it was the first stepping stone in the talk.

"No, of course not," Daphne replied, her chin still resting in his palm. Having noticed the awkwardness of the scene, Shaggy gently let go of her and put his hand on the sofa.

"Then what?" he asked, abiding to the soft pattern.

"It's hard to explain."

"Try, Daphne."

She stayed silent for several seconds, clearly structuring her reply.

"It's still hard to explain, but it feels…it feels as if the spark has disappeared," she slightly turned away again, but he caught the sorrowful expression of her features. As if she was mourning.

Like an echo, the last part of Daphne's statement returned and sounded in his ears and mind. The central word gripped him; even a simple word could contain grand power. Few other words could catch as much symbolism.

The spark. Everything always comes down to perception, but an important part deserved being added. It was a once spark that later became a flame. For years it kept them warm. The fiery blaze burned amidst the shifting elements. The warm sunshine of spring, the refreshing breezes of summer, the rains of autumn, the snows of winter—the seasons passed but the fire blazed. It seemed ever-lasting, it seemed inextinguishable. Now it was not.

He had been noticing its absence, but to him it was merely misplaced, and he had been certain it would still turn up. But perhaps one of the elements had made it go out? Or maybe it had faded away because its time had come?

What if that was the case? It seemed Daphne had come to such a conclusion.

"_Wait one moment_," a contrasting thought made its presence known in his mind, "_I think I'm being melancholic…out of proportion_."

Indeed, the spark seemed to have been missing for some time, but there was another important aspect. He did not have to delve deep into his essence in order to notice it. Impressions could be false, but feelings never lie.

He loved her. Spark or no, this remained unchanged. And as long as this was true, there was still a chance.

"Oh c'mon, Daphne, don't say that," he put a hand on her shoulder.

"I had to say it," she responded distantly.

"So what is the solution in your opinion?" he said with as much calmness as anybody could gather in moments like this.

"Perhaps it would be best to…" she trailed off again.

"Separate?" Shaggy guessed; the statement's ending was so predictable that it gave an impression the scene was adapted from a soap opera.

The redhead only nodded.

He could now call it official; his guesses had been correct. He had to win her a second time.

"C'mon, Daph, you don't know what you're talking about," he dismissed her claims in a soft tone.

"Shaggy," she objected without any hints of reproach.

"I don't know how long it took you to come to such a conclusion but it's really—and I mean really—unnecessary. It's just the strain of the last few months taking its toll on you. What you've gone through was too much for you…for anybody. Personally, I am certain that I would not have been able to handle all of it. But you're coping rather well." He gave her a smile and her shoulder and arm.

Shaggy ceased talking. His palm continued gliding up and down her shoulder, accompanied by a quiet leafy sound; the purple material of her dress was smooth underneath his touch. He threw a quick look at the TV set before realizing just as swiftly that it doing so was not of additional help.

The room had plunged into lifeless silence. Daphne was in thoughts while he awaited her next statement. The day's brightness had not become duller, but he was still ready to wait until evening if necessary.

"If only it had been as optimistic as you hope it is," Daphne sighed.

He thought a thrown brick hit a window; the effect of her words was sounding comparably in his ears.

"All that happened to me recently is only a part of the puzzle," she said, attempting to explain herself, "the rift runs deeper. It feels that everything became colder some time ago. Ever since our failed vacation."

There was nothing new here; he did not have to be reminded about the bumps in their relationship throughout the last year. However, the last sentence sent his mind on an unexpected trip. The surroundings became darker, even the room itself turned and changed. The living room became a chamber. There was no Daphne; there was no one but him…and the chest on the stony pedestal. The familiar decoration, a skeletal ram-like muzzle, was staring back at him. Weak green lights were shining in the eyeless sockets, granting more frost to its dreadful gaze. Then came the laughter; a dark sonata of thirteen voice. In it madness competed with malice, wails and cheering stood united. That laugh, that hideous tune, shook the whole of him…

The surroundings changed just as suddenly. He was back in the furnished living room, but the night-cold feel was hard to shake off. Was his imagination awry or did the dark acquaintances send him a telepathic greeting? He did not know, and it did not really matter that moment.

"But, Daphne, I love you," he said, looking at her intently, "It's beyond doubt. I am ready to do anything for you."

"I know this."

"Then what's the problem?"

"I think I'm to blame. I'm probably not appreciating your dedication as much as I should."

He had been expecting a range of answers, but he was not prepared for specific ones.

"Don't say this, Daphne. You do appreciate. Like I've said, it's because of what recently happened. You're just confused."

"Then why doesn't it feel so? The day we became a couple I wondered how sustainable our relationship could be and decided to let time tell. This question has often been revisiting me throughout this year."

Their discussion continued for some time but all his words led to nothing. It ended with them agreeing to finish this topic several days. Nevertheless, a peculiar sense hinted Shaggy that Fate was about to put a final dot in this chapter of his life. Intuition proved correct—Daphne had not changed her mind and her decision was made. Shaggy knew the difference between love and obsession. Those who love could admit loss when necessary. He did so. He let her go.

The last days of their relationship were probably the most awkward in his whole life. They barely spoke to each other. He did not even see her near the end: Daphne had taken leave from work, giving "vacation" as explanation. He, on the other hand, did not and was temporarily assigned as PA to a different reporter. This was when he realized how much he disliked his job. He had no problems with his temporary colleague, Mike, they got along well. But it was not the same. Mike specialized in more serious branches of journalism: politics, society, economy. The job became as dull as sorting envelopes in an office. Moreover, traveling the country as part of projects without Daphne felt like blasphemy. Worse, he suspected that his temporary colleague could soon become his permanent one; it seemed very unlikely that he and Daphne would continue to work in the same team. It was time to think about a possible change in career; he would not be able to bear his current job for long.

Daphne had vacated the property by the time he returned from his first assignment with Mike. He and the dogs were met by an empty house. The entrance hall remained silent to their return; the sound of steps did not come from the stairway. No traces of pink and purple were left—Daphne had taken her belongings with her. It was back to the three of them. It could have felt that everything had gone back the way it did six years before had the memories and experiences of these flash-like seasons not played with his soul.

The next day passed as boringly and melancholically as it possibly could. He did not do much on his day off; the only notable event was a trek to get a paper. On his way back he also purchased something that caught his eye.

Dusk had already fallen on the street and lampposts kindled their light blaze. He was sitting in his room, a plate on the small table in front of him. He picked up the last ham and salad sandwich. He gave it one final look before he consumed it in two bites. He was buried in thoughts; even eating was not a distraction. Had anybody, dog or ghost, entered the room, he would not have caught notice.

A similar scenario happened; he did not hear the door open nor the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Only a voice, gentle and angelic, made him aware of company.

"Shaggy?" he turned around in response to a familiar presence.

She was standing in the doorway leading to the room. The combination of orange and purple made the bright yellow of the room made paler in his eyes.

"Daphne," he said.

He knew she would come one more time; he did not expect anything less.

"How did you come in?" he asked.

The redhead raised her hand to reveal the pointy metal-grey forms of a set of keys. She still had her copy.

"This," she said.

"Makes sense," he commented just for the sake of it, "why don't you sit down?"

A few graceful steps and she was accommodated in a chair.

"Where are Scooby and Scrappy?" she wondered.

"Most probably resting," he replied.

"Oh," she made a one-moment pause, "So how did your assignment with Mike go?" she in the beginning of an unavoidable conversation.

"Nothing unusual," he said lightly, "but nothing good," his tone suddenly fell, "It's not the same as it was with you…not comparable in anything…"

"Well, I hope you'll get used to it," she spoke as if she was apologizing, "I think I will be looking for a new job."

That was a surprise to him. Daphne loved her job; that was why she had been one the paper's most active reporters for years. However, he immediately came up with a possible explanation.

"You understand that it would be incredibly difficult for us to work together after our breakup?" he tested his intuition.

She silently nodded in confirmation.

"I thought so as well."

He did not mind trying it though. As long as served as a possibility of somehow winning the redhead back, it was worth it. But he accepted that it was agonizing labor for someone like Daphne.

"That's why I'm thinking of quitting the job. I'll likely submit my resignation to the editor's office in a few days. You can continue your work; the paper needs you."

"But what will you do then?" she raised an eyebrow, surprised by his plans.

"Well…I might fall into a deep depression that would weaken my immune system and die after catching a cold," he threw a sarcastic remark and looked away, avoiding her startled expression.

"But on a serious note, I believe I need a career change," he smiled, looking back at her, "I'm thinking of going into teaching."

"Teaching?" she said, surprised, "but you don't have any teaching qualifications."

"It appears you don't need one for certain positions. I saw an ad in the paper," he looked left and right, "no where did I put it?" he mumbled, "anyway, I'll look for it later. But this school is located a long way from here, so I'll be out of town for the academic year if I am accepted for this job."

Daphne looked at a watch.

"I think it's time I get going," she sighed as stood up from the chair, "so allow me to wish you good luck."

"Like thanks," he said unemotionally.

"And here. I came to give them to you," she looked at the floor and brought her hand forward, the set of keys resting in her open palm, her keys to this house.

His eyes slid from the redhead to the offering and back.

"Keep them," he said.

Daphne shot him a gaze from the unexpected reply.

"It doesn't matter if it takes a month, a year, or three years…please…just come back," he would later wonder what still held him together when he was pronouncing these words, "I'll wait, Daphne."

The redhead sat back into the chair, closing her eyes and putting a hand against her forehead. She looked as if tears would soon stream down her smooth cheeks.

He kneeled before her and put his hand on her cheek.

"It's not too late yet," it was his last chance to prevent her from leaving and he used it, "just stay here and we can bring your stuff back tomorrow. You're my other half, Daphne."

They remained like that for almost a minute.

"I'll be going," the redhead said, preparing to stand up; she clutched the keys in her hand.

He accompanied her to the front door in silence.

"Will you return if you change your mind?" he begged for an answer one last time.

The redhead sighed.

"Let time tell," the exact words she pronounced in the beginning of their relationship returned to witness the final moments.

"Wait here. I want to give you something," Shaggy said and disappeared in the living room.

He reemerged quickly, holding the items that caught his attention earlier that day. The gentle stems and leaves carried the green spirit of spring; the yellow heads felt so bright they could have replaced lanterns in the night's shadows. Flowers seemed fitting that moment, and some types carried a symbol.

Yellow tulips, the messengers of hopelessly unchangeable love. Shaggy could hear the flowery poets sing their tribute to his and Daphne's romance as he handed the bouquet to the redhead.

Daphne accepted the gift.

And so she left his house, his love reflected in the golden heads of the tulips in her hands.

—

Shaggy stood in the doorway watching as the redhead disappeared in the shadows. Then the images before his eyes began to unravel. They twisted and melted until they were completely burned away.

There was no doorway in front of him anymore—the thin transparent layer of glass now kept the night on the other side. He observed the darkened street from a new point, the upper story of his house. He turned away from the window and looked around. The interior was unmistakable; he was in his room. A light frown appeared on his face—the journey between the two locations was a swift one…

The present brought him back to its grasp.

He wondered how much time had passed since he stepped to the window this night. How long would it still take for dawn to color the skies? He did not know, and it did not bother him much.

He had made a trip across time and numerous locations whilst standing, facing the night. He had not seen the sky's pale lantern; other images had flashed before his eyes. He had relieved years in just one night.

A single word escaped from beneath his breath, carrying a rose-tainted name: _Daphne_.

It felt as if the walls of the room echoed the same name in response.

It had been a year since he saw her last, but her image was so bright in his memory that he was afraid he would lose the ability of distinguishing past and present.

He had been to places since their breakup. Soon afterwards, he was offered the teaching position he had applied for, an offer he accepted. He had seen it as an opportunity to get away from breakup's acid that was burning him then…

But he had gotten more than he bargained for and had not even stayed until the end of the academic year. The literal ghoulishness of that school could have easily beaten Vincent's and Kreepoff's TerrorTech…

Yet no matter where he was…in what situation he was…the lovely familiar image kept coming back.

Daphne had broken his heart but still kept the pieces together. Sometimes, he really had an urge to hate her for what she had done. But how could he hate if he even saw those same features amidst the constellations in the heavens?

Thus anger quickly turned to longing.

He desperately wished her to return. He did not need an apology; he wanted her back. He did not calculate the chances; he relied solely on hope.

He would hope and he would wait.

_Daphne_, the name flashed in the shine of a star.

Shaggy went to bed as dawn's hues appeared on the horizon. Sleep overpowered him rather quickly and took him to its realm…He and the dogs, the blonde boy and the bespectacled girl, the eccentric warlock and the underage conartist, criminals in masks and supernatural beings— all merged into an unfamiliar chaotic narrative. Travel, pursuits, leisure, mysteries—this time the sequence of events made no sense but he was not bothered.

_She_ was there with him.

—

**Author's Note**: Thank you for reading, ladies and gentlemen!


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